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ORIGINAL DIALOGUES; 



OR 



CONVERSATIONS. 



FOR THE USE OF 

SCHOOLS AND THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 



BY MES. DE WITT 



CINCINNATI: 

PUBLISHED FOB THE ACTHOHE8S, 

BY ROBERT CLARKE k CO. 

W. B. SMITH k CO. 

1853. 






:J*»V.. :-0 






(\f-iZ J**vr 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 

ROBERT CLARKE & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of United States District Court of the 
Southern District of Ohio. 



L C Control Number 



V 




tmp96 



031021 



CINCINNATI : 
B. TEANKLAND, PRISTEB, 
L CORNER FOURTH AND VINE STREETS. 



Sr?o 



-ZS 



With tlie hesitancy that may well become any claim 
on the attention or favor of the teachers or friends of our 
Public Schools, the following Dialogues are presented. 
The various ages of pupils have been considered, and to 
clothe childhood's thoughts in their own simplicity has been 
my aim; most of them are gleanings from actual conversa- 
tions, and to my children, who have unconsciously been the 
instruments, as well as instructors, through whom I have 
composed this little book, it is kindly dedicated by their 

Mother. 



CONTENTS, 



Hard Times .... 

CrRIOSITY 

Large Brothers 

$E"WING 

Country Life .... 
Uncle Aleck .... 
Ox Coasting .... 
Ox Housekeeping .... 
Recollection of My School Days 

Christmas 

Public Speaking 

Riches 

On Quarreling .... 
On Play Houses .... 
Fourth of July . . . 
Troubles of Childhood 
Professional Men 
On Health ..... 

On Anger 

On TVriting, Reading, etc. . 

On Examination Days 

On Fishing 

MlSCHIEVOUSNESS 

Kind Remembrances 



VI. 



CONTENTS. 



On Beauty Page 96 

Birthdays 99 

Boys' Troubles 103 

On Employment for Women . • . 107 

Last Day of School . . . . . Ill 

Dancing School . . . • • • . 114 

On Music 116 

Boys' Bargains . . . « • « . 120 

Sabbath Schools . • • . • 124 

The Menagerie ....... 128 

Boarding Houses ...... 133 

On Studying 136 

Cousins ........ 140 

Boys' Occupations ...... 144 

On Age ........ 146 

Love of Parents . , . . . . . 149 

A Colloquy ....... 153 

Daily Annoyances ...... 156 

May Day 159 

Bad Habits 164 

On Kites 166 

Ghost Stories 109 

Old Bachelors 1?3 

Cousinly Affection . . . . . . 177 

Scene in a Doctor's Office .... 183 

On Concealment 189 

Hope and Fear I 95 



ORIGINAL 

DIALOGUES 



HARD TIMES. 

Enter Charley, drawing on a pair of nicely fitting gloves. 

Harry. — [Accosts him.'] — Well, my good fel- 
low, you are as trim this morning as a Broadway 
dandy, [turning him round,'] new suit out and out ; 
how in the world can you afford to dress so well 
these hard times ? 

Charley. — Can't very well afford it, but I must 
have clothes, and everything is so cheap now; 
all you want is the money. 

Harry. — But that is the very thing that is hard 
to get. Dollars look as large as the full moon 



8 Hard Times. 

now, and I'm sure I see them less seldom. I 
thought I would have had a new suit for exhibi- 
tion, but here is the old one [looking down at him- 
self], that figured so conspicuously at the last. 

Charley. — There is one comfort, Harry, and 
that is, you look better in your old clothes than 
half the boys in their new. 

Harry. — Do you think so ? Well, I'm glad of 
it, for mother says these are to be my best until 
the panic is over, and I'm afraid it will last lon- 
ger than they. 

Charley. — 0, I hope not, for 1 get so tired 
hearing of the hard times, that I am almost afraid 
to ask for a pair of shoes, and my toes are about 
taking their first peep into the outer world. 

Enter Will — [Reading aloud'] — " Latest news 
by telegraph ; general suspension of specie pay- 
ments ; great excitement in Wall Street !" 

Charley.— What's that, Will ? 

Will. — Nothing more than the New York 
banks have all suspended specie payment. I'm 
glad we have our fortunes to make, and nothing 
to lose, just now. 

Harry. — So am I, for money is a source of 



Hard Times. 9 

great trouble anyhow ; I heard Father say, last 
night, he was far happier when he had none. 

Charley. — I believe that is true, for there is 
Uncle John, that has none, and owes almost 
everybody, and a happier man I never saw. 

Will. — Has he failed ? 

Charley. — No ; I think he has only suspended ! 

Will. — Well, I'm sure I never could be happy 
if I owed anything without the means of pay- 
ing it ; but Father says it seems to be the fashion 
now-a-days for a man that has failed to seem 
well pleased with what he has done, and if his 
indebtedness be millions, he is so much the 
greater hero. 

Harry. — There must be a great many such 
heroes now, but no person envies them their 
laurels. If I only owe fifty cents, I never rest 
easy until it is paid. 

Charley. — Do you think that would be the case 
if you owed fifty thousand ? 

Harry. — Probably not, for if I owed that much, 
I don't believe I ever could pay it, for they say 
when a man gets one foot into the mire, the other 
generally follows, in trying to get out the first. 



10 Hakd Times. 

Will. — [ Very gravely .] — After all, the best way- 
is to buy for cash, and if you havn't got it, wait 
until you do get it. 

Charley.— [Looks around with astonishment.'] — 
Was that you, Will, talking just now ; why I 
thought some old fogey had stepped in, for only 
yesterday, Harry, he wanted to buy a pair of 
skates on credit I 

Harry. — Credit won't do now, Will, but I 
thought your honest face could obtain anything. 

Will. — My face don't seem to pass any bet- 
ter than some of your bank notes, altho' I know 
it is just as good ; you would trust it, Charley ? 

Charley. — [Hesitatingly.'] — Yes, I don't know 
but I would if I couldn't get the money, but as 
every person seems to have lost confidence in 
their very best friends, I could not but doubt you. 

Harry. — Father says this want of confidence 
all arises from the parade made in the papers of 
banks and firms failing, who say their assets are 
large, liabilities small, and expect to pay in full, 
that will never pay ten cents on the dollar. 

Will. — Yes, that has got to be such an old 
story, that people only wink at it now. If some 



ClIKIOSITY. 11 

poor, unfortunate fellow would close his doors, 
and put up a placard saying he didn't expect to 
pay a dollar, it would be a good joke on the 
rest. 

Charley. — Come, boys, you are forgetting 
yourselves ; the second bell has rung for school, 
and we will be sent home for coming so late. 

Harry. — No fear of that. I will take the 
short cut thro' the alley, and be there before the 
roll is called. Come, never mind the hard times, 
boys, for everything will be as smooth as glass 
before we go into business. 



CURIOSITY. 



Nelly. — Did you ever see any person have as 
much curiosity as Sally L. ? I do love to tease 
her. 

Molly. — I don't think she has any more than 
the rest of us, only we know how to conceal 
ours. 

Nelly. — I told her, the other day, I had heard 
something so good, would like to tell her, but had 



12 Curiosity. 

promised I would not, when up she came so 
pleadingly, and took me by the hand, saying, 
now, Nelly, if you don't tell me what it is, I will 
never tell you anything again, as long as I live. 

Molly. — And probably she would come to you 
the day after with a far greater secret than the 
one you refused to tell her. 

Nelly. — That is just the way with those kind 
of girls, they are always as eager to tell as hear. 

Molly. — I don't believe that, for I am a very 
good listener, but not a good talker. 

Nelly. — Well, here she comes now, I will try 
her again. 

Sally — [comes up] — What secrets now, girls ? 
anything new ? 

Nelly. — Nothing but that, [showing a beautiful 
little note."] 

Sally. — Do let me see it ; from whom did it 
come ? A gentleman or lady ? 

Molly. — If it was from a lady she would cer- 
tainly let us both see it, but I know it is not, for 
I have seen her take it out of her pocket three 
or four times to-day to admire it. 

Sally, going up to take it from her. 



CUEIO SITY. 13 

Sally. — Don't be so foolish, Nelly, let us see 
it ; upon my word, I'll never breathe it. 

Nelly. — I'm afraid to rely so much upon your 
word, for you didn't keep it last time. 

Molly. — But that was not a secret of such 
great importance as this. 

Nelly. — Why, Molly, you are really getting 
your curiosity as much excited about the note as 
Sally. 

Sally. — Who wouldn't ? I never saw a girl 
in my life that didn't want to take a peep in a 
letter she had been told she couldn't see. 

Molly. — Well, just answer us one question, is 
it from a gentleman or lady. 

Nelly. — From a gentleman ; now you are more 
anxious than ever to see it. 

Sally. — Of course we are, and see it I must, 
or I can't sleep a wink to-night. 

Nelly. — [Placing it in her hand hesitatingly] — ■ 
Now promise me, Sally, that you and Molly 
will never speak of it, altho' I will have to show 
it to Father to-night. 

Sally. — Aha ! then it is of some importance. 
—[Reads aloud] — Miss Lowe, you have probably 



14 Curiosity. 

forgotten there is a little bill of six dollars due 
us, from you, for confectionary. Yours, &c. 

Molly. — [Laughing.] — What a love letter ; I 
thought we were going to hear something very 
sentimental. 

Sally. — And I, too, as it came from a gentle- 
man, and she had to show it to her father. 

Nelly. — Now you see, girls, I was just trying 
to see how much of old Mother Eve was in you. 

Sally. — Well, you find enough to claim rela- 
tionship with her, and always will be, while 
women have so much curiosity. 

Molly. — I don't think they have any more 
curiosity than men. 

Nelly. — Neither do I, for if Ma knows any- 
thing that Pa don't, he never ceases teasing her, 
until she tells him all about it. 

Sally. — And when she does, I suppose he 
says, (as they all do,) I knew you couldn't keep 
it ; I never saw a woman in my life that could 
keep a secret. 

Molly. — What provoking rascals these hus- 
bands are ; if a woman never sets her foot out 
of doors, from morning till night, it's — "what 



Laege Brothers. 15 

is the news, my dear ?" — whenever they come 
home. 

Nelly. — And if their dears don't happen to 
have heard anything, they take up the newspa- 
per, and read the rest of the evening. 

Sally. — How I wish Lucy Stone would reform 
them, for upon my word, they are worse spoiled 
than children, tho' very " dear provoking crea- 
tures," (as their wives call them), whom they 
cannot help loving. 



LARGE BROTHERS. 

Alf. — Have you any brothers, Percy? 

Percy. — No, I'm the only son. I wish I had; 
the way I would make them stand round, would 
be fun. 

Alf. — May be they would make you stand 
round, as my big brother does ; it is, " Alf. come 
here," the minute he gets out of bed, and he 
keeps calling, and giving orders until breakfast's 
ready. 



16 Large Brothers. 

Percy. — What kind of orders ? 

Alf. — To bring him up some water, see that 
his boots are polished, clothes brushed, etc. 

Percy. — He must be something of a gentle- 
man. 

Alf. — That's what they call him, but I wish 
he was less of one, and would wait on himself. 
He has been away from home two or three 
years, and he thinks he knows more now than 
Father or Mother. 

Percy. — Where did he go to learn so much ? 

Alf. — To California. 

Percy. — I guess he had no person to wait on 
him there, for they say they have to do all their 
own washing, ironing, and cooking. 

Alf. — I don't believe he had to do that, for he 
was working in the mines. 

Percy. — They are the very chaps that have to 
do it. Did he bring home any money ? 

Alf. — No, he left it all in something he calls 
claims there, which Mother thinks will make him 
very rich some day, for he often tells us the 
steamer he came home in, brought a million in 
gold. 



Laege Beothees. 17 

Enter Arthur. — What is that about a mil- 
lion in gold ? 

Alf. — -We were just talking about my brother, 
who was in California. 

Arthur. — Did he bring home that much ? 

Alf. — No, nor anything else, that I can see, 
except a big gold ring and watch chains. 

Percy. — -They generally bring home a pair 
of whiskers, and mustache, if nothing else. 

Arthur. — That must be because they charge so 
high there for shaving. Some of them look more 
like bears than men when they come back. 

Alf. — They don't look any more like bears 
than they act, for my brother growls at every 
thing that don't suit him. 

Percy. — Is he doing any business ? 

Alf. — Nothing but whittling sticks, and wait- 
ing, as he says, for " something to turn up" 

Arthur. — You must have a good time, Alf., I 
don't envy any boy a big brother, for when our 
Bill was at home, I was whipped from five to 
ten times every day. 

Percy. — What did you do ? 

Arthur. — Never could find out, only he said I 



18 Large Brothers. 

deserved it all, and as much more, and at last I 
began to think I did. 

Percy. — So you took it all as a matter of 
course. 

Alf. — And was no doubt thankful you didn't 
get any more. 

Arthur. — Yes, but I have learned better since, 
altho' Bill laughs, and tells me now it was all 
for my own good. 

Percy. — Father gives me enough for my own 
good, and a little more sometimes than I think I 
deserve. 

Alf. — I was very near getting a little more 
than my usual share this morning, but not more 
than I deserved, when I made off as fast as my 
legs could carry me. 

Percy. — How was that? 

Alf. — My brother sent me with two notes, 
one to a lady, and the other to his tailor about 
an unpaid bill, and I gave the wrong one to the 
lady. 

Arthur. — How did you find that out ? 

Alf. — After she read it, she handed it back to 
me, saying it was not for her. I thought the 



Sewing. 19 



joke was so good I told him when I came home, 
and he made at me like a young Hyena, when 
I made off as fast as possible. 

Percy. — I should think you would be afraid to 
go home again. 

Alf. — I should if I didn't know he would see 
her this afternoon, and she will make him be- 
lieve she didn't read it at all ; it always takes 
these girls to fix up everything very nice. 

Arthur. — Then in case it is not fix'd up, we 
will not look for you at school to-morrow. 

Alf. — No, I suppose I will be banished for fife. 



SEWING. 

Hatty. — Do you see that handkerchief, 
Letty — \liolding it up] — I hemmed it all myself. 

Letty. — You did, why I never knew you could 
sew as well as that. 

Hatty. — I learned making clothes for my doll 
baby. Why, I remember the first dress I made, 
Grandma said, blind and all as she was, she 
could see my stitches across the room. 



20 Sewing. 



Letty. — Sometimes I think I will never learn, 
altho' Susy says, " be patient, child," and one 
day when I had done my best, she said, " why did 
you baste it? I thought you was going to sew. r 

Hatty. — That w r as the w T ay Grandma teased 
me, but she would pat me on the head after- 
wards, and say, " never mind, you will do better 
next time." 

Letty. — Susy was not so kind as that, she 
would laugh, and tell me if my doll could see 
my sewing it would never put on one of its 
dresses. 

Hatty. — I suppose you would pout then, and 
say you would never try again. 

Letty. — How did you guess so well ? 

Hatty. — Why I did so too, but it was because 
I made so many things wrong side out. 

Letty. — And then had to rip them of course. 

Hatty. — Yes, I remember of sitting on a little 
stool at Grandma's feet, crying over every 
stitch 1 took out, when she said, "hush, Letty, be 
a good little girl, I have a story to tell you." 

Letty. — Was it about " Little Red Riding 
Hood?" 



Sewing. 21 



Hatty. — No, it was about herself; how hard 
it was for her to learn to sew when a little girl, 
and when they became poor, she had to go out 
in families, and sew for a living. 

Letty. — Wasn't she glad she knew how ? I 
never had a Grandmother. 

Hatty. — Oh ! you must have had one, but may 
be she died long ago ; you ought to see mine. 

Letty. — Does she look like Grandmother 
Hubbard ? 

Hatty. — No indeed, she is always so neat and 
clean, and wears such pretty plain caps, and 
white underhandkerchiefs. Pa had her likeness 
taken last week, and everybody asked what dear 
old woman that was. 

Letty. — Well, I w T ill go home w T ith you next 
Saturday, and if I take my doll apron, will your 
Grandma show me how to make it ? 

Hatty. — Of course she will, but don't forget 
your thimble. 

Letty. — I never could sew with a thimble in 
all my life. 

Hatty. — But you must learn, Letty, and after 
we get done sewing I will send for Flora Beach, 



22 Country Life. 

and Katy Bruce, and we will have a little tea 
party. 

Letty. — Won't that be nice ; I must run home 
and tell Mother all about it ; only four days 
until Saturday ; I'm so glad ; good bye, Hatty, 
good bye ; now don't forget the tea party. 



-*♦►• 



COUNTRY LIFE. 

Bob. — How do you like living in the country, 
Joe ; you have fine fresh air out there. 

Joe. — Yes, and enough of it; I get up in the 
morning about five, and am out taking fresh air 
until breakfast is ready. 

Bob. — 'Why do you stay out so much ? 

Joe. — How would you expect a fellow to hoe 
cabbages, weed onions, and pole beans, in the 
house ? 

Bob. — Oh ! ho ! I didn't know you was so 
industrious ; you can't have that to do every 
morning ? 

Joe. — No, not every morning, for sometimes I 



Country Life. 23 

have to go for the cow, water the horses, and 
feed the pigs. 

Bob.— "What a comfort (as our Mothers say) 
you must be at home, how would they get along 
without you ? 

Joe. — I don t know, without it would be to get a 
man, and pay him double the wages they do me. 

Bob. — They pay you then, do they ? 

Joe. — So they say, but I never saw any money 
yet, it all went for my last suit of clothes. 

Bob. — That is a great way, I would rather see 
the money, any time, than the clothes. 

Joe. — So would I, if it was only a dime a day, I 
would feel a great deal richer, than if I w T as 
dressed in the finest broadcloth. 

Bob. — -I wonder if our fathers ever think we 
would like to have a little change jingling in our 
pockets. 

Joe. — I suppose they do, only they are afraid it 
will jingle out. 

Bob. — Better do that than wear a hole in yovx 
pocket. 

Joe. — I remember one morning, a few weeks 
ago, after having had a shower in the night, 



24 Countey Life. 



Father said, " Joe, if you have all the weeds 
out of the beds before breakfast, I will give you a 
dime." I tell you Bob, I worked like a hero, and 
it wasn't more than an hour before I had every 
weed, as well as a lot of young carrots, wilting 
in the sun. 

Bob. — But you got your dime, did you ? 

Joe. — Of course I did, and I think I earned it, for 
the nasty carrots were far harder to pull up than 
the weeds. 

Bob. — What did your Father say, when he 
found out what you had done. 

Joe. — Nothing; he didn't know them from 
weeds ; it was mother planted them, for herself, 
and company. 

Bob. — Isn't it queer how weeds grow. Ten to 
one if you planted them they would never come 
up ; but you forgot to tell me what you did with 
your dime. 

Joe. — I got it changed into cents at the toll gate 
as I came in, and walked among the boys, feel- 
ing as big as John Jacob Astor. 

Bob. — It is a wonder they didn't try to get it 
from you. 



Uncle Aleck. 25 

Joe. — They did ; one boy had marbles to sell, 
another a top, another a kite, and so on, until 
they got every cent, and I went home wishing 
all the way I had my money back, and the} r their 
foolish things. 

Bob. — Boys are all alike. I have done so my- 
self, and father says, that is the way about 
one-half of the world do business. 

Joe. — You will never catch me doing it that 
way. Money is money, and when I get it I 
won't sell it for any thing else. 



UNCLE ALECK. 

Jim counting some cents which he holds in his hand. 

Enter Tom. — Jim, where did you get all that 
money ? 

Jim. — Got it from Uncle Aleck, for going out 
of the room when he came to see Cousin Fanny. 

Tom. — He only gave me three cents last time, 
and if he don't give me more, I will not go out 
at all ; I wonder why he comes so often. 

B 



26 Uncle Aleck. 

Jim. — I don't know; but he always seems to 
have so much to say, and Fanny listens just as 
if he was preaching a sermon. 

Tom. — I guess he does, for he had finished his 
sermon, yesterday, when I went in, and was 
down on his knees. I don't like him very much, 
for I don't think he is fond of children. 

Jim. — Yes he is, for he took sister Lily on his 
knee, yesterday, and told Cousin Fanny what a 
sweet little thing she was, kissed and petted 
her, and said he always loved little children so 
much. 

Tom. — O, that is because he thinks the baby 
looks like her. I heard him tell her it had such 
sweet blue eyes, and rosy lips, and then he 
kissed it, and said, you little toad, you are just 
like your Cousin Fan. 

Jim. — That is just the way they were talking 
this evening, but I didn't know what it meant, 
only he took Fanny's hand and said he wished 
it was his. 

Tom. — He would look great with a hand so 
small as that. "What did Fanny say ? 

Jim. — She only laughed, and said, don't be so 



Uncle Aleck. 27 

foolish, Cousin Aleck, and then commenced hum- 
ming Old Hundred, or some other slow tune she 
thought would suit him. 

Enter Bill — [ With his pockets full of marbles — 
showing a handful.'] — Look here, boys, how many 
marbles I have got. 

Tom. — Where did you get them ? 

Bill. — I gathered all the old iron about the 
place, sold it for fifteen cents, and bought them 
with the money. 

Jim. — I have almost as much as that, myself, 
that my Uncle gave me this evening. 

Bill. — Let us go into partnership. 

Tom. — Wait until to-morrow, boys, and may 
be I can go halvers with you. I will go and ask 
Cousin Fan. when the old fellow is coming 
again. [Goes out.] 

Bill. — What old fellow does he mean ? 

Jevi. — Uncle Aleck, the banker. 

Bill. — Oh ! yes, I heard Sister Sue say he 
was going to marry Fanny. 

Jim. — Marry Fanny ; and that is what he has 
been after every day, for the last month. You 
know he always said his business was over at 



28 Uncle Aleck. 

three in the afternoon, but I think it just begins, 
for he is here as regular as a clock. 

Bill. — He is a very good natured looking man, 
but almost too large. 

Jim. — 1 told Fanny, yesterday, he looked like 
old Pickwick, and she laughed heartily, and said, 
little boys must not talk so much. I do wonder 
if she thinks he is handsome ? 

Bill. — No, I don't think she does, but every- 
body says he is very rich. 

Jim. — Tom and I will get all the money we 
want then. 

Bill. — Try and get all you can before, for may 
be he will say like Old John Unit, after he is 
married, "it won't pay, boys." 

Jim. — I must go and find Tom, and tell him, or 
he might call the old fellow some name, that 
would make Cousin Fanny angry, and neither 
of us would get a cent. 



Coasting. 29 



ON COASTING. 

Stanley. — Where were you going, Fred, when 
I met you this morning ? 

Fred. — Up to Elm street, to see the boys 
coasting ; they go down like lightning. 

Stan. — Did you take your sled with you? 

Fred. — I havn't got any ; they cost too much. 

Stan. — You ought to see mine, that my Uncle 
at Pittsburgh gave me, it holds five boys. 

Fred. — Holds five boys ! I never saw such a 
big one in my life. Has it round irons on ? 

Stan. — I bet it has, and as smooth as glass. 
It beat the u Ocean Wave," and it was always 
called the fastest sled on the track. 

Fred. — Have you had it long ? 

Stan. — Not very ; I brought it down with me 
on the boat, and because it was named " Fanny 
Fern," Capt. Beltzhower let her go free. 

Fred. — Is your Uncle very rich? 

Stan. — I guess he is, for he gets me every 
thing I want. 

Fred. — Has he any little boys of his own ? 



30 Coasting 



Stan. — No, but he has two of the funniest 
dogs you ever saw. One is named Ginger and 
the other Tory, and they do everything he tells 
them. 

Fred. — I would like to see them. 

Stan. — May be he will give me one sometime. 
It would be just as good as a monkey show, and 
I would make every boy pay five cents to get in. 

Fred. — I would like to go in partnership with 
you, for I think we could make so much money. 

Stan. — I have a brother I always take in, or 
he gets so angry, he tells all the boys it i3 not 
worth seeing. 

Fred. — Is he bigger than you ? 

Stan. — No, two years younger. Here he 
comes, now. 

De Witt liters. — Stan, what did you do with 
my sled? I can't find it any place. 

Stan. — I didn't see your sled. Maybe Harry 
took it. 

De Witt. — If I can't find it, I will take your big 
one. 

Stan. — I don't think you will ; Fred and I are 
going to try it together this afternoon. 



Coasting. 31 



De Witt — Who is going to steer ? 

Fred. — I don't know, I guess we will steer it 
time about. 

De Witt. — I'll bfct Stan, will want to guide all 
the time ; he always does. 

Fred. — You may look for me as soon as school 
is out. [Fred goes out.] 

Stan. — [Calling after Mm."] — I'll meet you on 
the corner of 4th and John. 

De Witt. — I don't believe Mamma will let 
you go, if I tell her the teacher whipped you 
to-day. 

Stan. — I will tell her myself. It was not 
any more my fault than Closterman's. I never 
tell on you. 

De Witt. — You did, one day, long ago. 

Stan. — When ? 

De Witt. — The time she wanted to know 
what made my face so dirty, and you told her I 
had been crying ; and she wanted to know what 
I had been crying about, and I had to tell her 
the teacher whipped me. 

Stan. — Well, then you told on yourself. 

De Witt. — But I wouldn't if you had not said 



32 Housekeeping. 

I had been crying. Do you think a boy's face 
only gets dirty when he cries. 

Stan. — No ; mine gets dirty laughing, and I 
guess I had better go and have it washed now, 
for Mamma says, it always needs it. 

De Witt. — Bring me a piece of bread and 
butter, with molasses on, and I will go and slide, 
until you come back. 



ON HOUSEKEEPING. 

Lizzie. — Do you ever think you would like to 
have a house of your own, and be a fashionable 
lady, some day ? 

Mary. — Sometimes I do, but when I see how 
Mother is annoyed by her girls, and all the other 
troubles of housekeeping, I never want anything 
larger than the little playhouse I used to have 
under the shadow of our old tree. 

Lizzie. — It is enough to annoy any one, the airs 
that these girls assume. Do you know Bridget 
told mother, this morning, she might as well 
give up housekeeping, for she was going to have. 



Housekeeping. 33 

Mary. — That is just like them ; I get so tired 
hearing them complain. I try to be of all the 
service I can at home. 

Lizzie. — In what way ? 

Mary. — Well, I rise a little before six, wash 
three of the children, dust the parlors, and look 
over all my lessons, before breakfast. 

Lizzie. — I never knew you was so industrious, 
Mary. I would be ashamed to tell you how 
little I do. 

Mary. — We have no idea how much we can 
assist at home, if we only do it with a willing 
heart. Why I am so happy while I am at work, 
Pa . calls me his morning Lark, for I always 
awake him with a song. 

Lizzie. — Well, I will profit by what you have 
said, and try and make myself more useful in 
future. Here comes Kit Carson, late as usual. 
[Kit comes in.] What is the matter, Kit? you 
look so moody! 

Kit. — Matter enough. I had to sweep the 
fallen leaves off the pavement, this morning ; look 
at my hands all blistered, [showing them,'] and 
water all the flowers in the front yard. 



34 Housekeeping. 

Mary. — O, how happy I would be to have 
flowers to care for ; not even a blade of grass 
has room to force its way through our brick 
pavement. 

Lizzie. — Nor ours either. I have often envied 
Kit the beautiful yard that surrounded their place, 
upon which every person looked with such 
pleasure. 

Kit. — It is very nice to talk about, but if you 
had to collect scraps of fallen paper off the grass, 
and keep the children off the flower beds, you 
would not think there was so much poetry in it. 

Mary. — I do much more you would not think 
poetical; for instance, take care of the baby 
while mother is busy. 

Kit. — Oh ! taking care of a crying baby is 
dreadful. 

Lizzie. — She didn't say it was a crying one. 

Kit. — Well, I never saw one that wasn't. 
Ours "makes night as well as day hideous," on 
every occasion, and yet Ma thinks it the " dear- 
est little thing in the world." 

Lizzie, — That is just what they think of mirs 
at home, and it is more trouble than all the rest 



School Days. 35 

of us put together. Why, only last night, after 
it had gotten over one of its crying spells, and 
laughed just a little, Pa took it up and dandled it 
on his knee, and said, there wasn't such another 
baby in town. 

Mary. — I wonder if they thought so of us, 
when we were babies ; for if they did, they have 
got most bravely over it now. 

Kit. — I am sure they never thought so of me, 
altho' I was the " first little angel of love " that 
came to their home. 

Lizzie. — You must have lost your wings early. 

Mary. — You must not be so quizzical, Lizzie ; 
look, all the girls have gone into school ; come 
let us go, and when we have more time we will 
discuss crying babies, as well as housekeeping. 



KECOLLECTION OF MY SCHOOL DAYS. 

Walter. — I have just been thinking, Tom, of 
the days when we went to the village school; 
what a merry time we had of it. 

Tom. — Yes, very merry, indeed ; but you for- 



36 School Days. 

get, Walter, how cross old Funsten was, and how 
often the palms of our hands suffered from con- 
tact with his hickory ruler. 

Walter. — It makes mine smart to think of it 
now, and although he gave us two more for every 
time we drew our hands away, I could not help 
doing so. 

Tom. — Nor I either, altho' I kept mine pretty 
still, until I found I had just time to save myself. 

Walter. — I could bear the pain a great deal 
better than I could the smirks and smiles of the 
boys and girls. 

Tom. — So could I; red as my hands were 
sometimes, I felt my face was far more so. 

Walter. — I remember how one little girl 
laughed at me, who had long been a great 
favorite, and I never liked her afterwards. 

Tom. — We are not troubled with girls now, in 
our school, for some wise man found it was better 
to separate us. 

Walter. — I suppose it was, altho' it was their 
presence that so often inspired me with poetry. 

Tom. — I remember once of being the bearer 
of a little gem, in that line, from you to a red 



School Days. 37 

headed, freckled little girl, we called Sophy, 
commencing thus : " The rose is red, the violets 
blue, sugar sweet, and so are you." 

Walter. — To which she replied : " My pen is 
bad, my ink is pale, my love for you shall never 
fail." 

Enter Hastings from behind, laying his hand upon him. 

Hastings. — 'Well, my good fellow, what are 
you repeating with so much feeling ? 

Walter. — Some of my nursery songs that I 
had almost forgotten. 

Hastings. — It must have been the fate of Poor 
Cock Robin, for you really looked a little sad. 

Tom. — Oh ! no, we were talking about our 
school days, that have long since gone, and wish- 
ing they could come again. 

Hastings. — You are not like me ; I hate the 
sight of a school, and only wish I had passed 
the boundary line. 

Walter. — You must have had a hard time, 
that you can recall nothing pleasant. 

Hastings. — Hard it was, for my teacher was a 
prim old maid, that looked about as sharp as 
the needles with which she was always knitting. 



38 School Days. 



Tom. — I suppose she didn't like children? 

Hastings. — No, for I thought I was quite a 
favorite, and ventured one day to ask her how 
old she was, for which I got a box on the side of 
the head, and was sent back to my seat, amid 
the suppressed laughter of the whole school. 

Walter. — [Laughing .] — I suppose you will be 
more particular in future how you ask such 
naughty questions. 

Hastings. — You may rest assured I will, for 
that was one lesson she taught me I w r ill never 
forget. 

Tom. — Walter and I went to school in the 
country, and altho' we had a very strict teacher, 
we always had our share of fun. 

Walter. — Do you remember the tricks Turn 
Horton would play on the old fellow, when he 
took his naps in the warm summer afternoons. 

Hastings. — What kind of tricks ? 

Walter. — Tickling him behind the ear with 
the tip end of a quill, which he always thought 
was the flies. 

Hastings. — And did he never catch him at it ? 

Tom. — Yes, lie did once, but Percy looked very 



Cheistmas. 39 

grave, and said, " please, Sir, mend my pen," so 
that the teacher was not any wiser than before. 

Walter. — Schools are kept very differently 
now, and every teacher is wide awake, morning 
and afternoon, to their duty. 

Hastings. — We cannot even stay at home half 
a day without an explanatory note from Father 
or Mother. 

Tom. — Which it is very difficult for them to 
give sometimes, and we have to abide by the 
consequences. 

Walter. — Well, I hope the consequences will 
be that Cincinnati will be proud, some day, to 
claim us, as the sojis of her free institutions. 



CHRISTMAS. 

Louise. — Only a few months more, and Christ- 
mas will be here, with the cold, frosty weather, 
that Old Santa Claus loves so much. 

Charlotte. — Yes, indeed, I often think of it 
when I am studying, and wonder what he will 
bring me. 



40 Christmas. 

Louise. — What did he bring you last time ? 

Charlotte. — Two or three books, a little work 
box and bureau, and, I had almost forgotten, 
another big doll. 

Louise. — Another doll ; you must have a large 
family now; you had four or five of all sizes the 
last afternoon I spent with you. Why, I never 
get half as much. 

Charlotte. — I wonder what is the reason. 
May be your chimney is not large enough to let 
the old fellow down. 

Louise. — Old fellow indeed. I have never be- 
lieved much in him since last Christmas. I was 
sent to bed early, and when I awoke in the night, 
between ten and eleven, I thought I would go 
in and see if he had put anything in my stock- 
ings, and there was Mother, dropping nuts and 
candy slyly into each one. 

Charlotte. — What did she say when she saw 
you? 

Louise. — Go off to bed, you little Fairy, you ; 
don't you know Santa Claus never comes before 
twelve. 

Charlotte. — I alwavs was afraid I would see 



Christmas. 41 

him. I would not get up for the world. They 
say, " He is dressed in fur from his head to his 
foot, and his clothes are all covered with ashes 
and soot." 

Louise. — Yes, but he always looks so good 
natured I never thought of being afraid of him. 
You know the pictures we see of him are 
always laughing. 

Charlotte. — Well, I should be very sorry if 
there was no Santa Claus, for I think I could 
never love Christmas if it was not for him ; he 
brought all the little girls in our school some- 
thing. 

Louise. — Except poor little Biddy O'Donnel ; 
she cried next morning, and told me she had not 
any stocking to hang up. 

Charlotte. — No stocking to hang up this cold 
weather. Poor little girl ! Where does she live ? 

Louise. — In a cold, dark cellar on Front 
street. Her mother goes out washing, and she 
has to stay at home half the time, to take care 
of the baby. 

Charlotte. — Let us go and see her, Louise. I 
have some clothes that are too small for me, and 



42 Christmas. 

plenty of nice stockings, that will just fit her. 

Louise. — And when Christmas comes again, I 
will have saved enough of my money to buy her 
a nice present. 

Charlotte. — So will I, and then she will be 
just as happy as the rest of us. I have noticed 
she never stops to play with the little girls after 
school. 

Louise. — No, she says she must hurry home to 
gather wood for the fire, and this winter, when 
it was so scarce, I saw her with a few chips in 
her basket, she had gathered from off the street. 

Charlotte. — Poor little thing. I have often 
thought she was one of the prettiest girls 
in school, with her soft blue eyes, and waving 
hair. Her clothes are poor, but they are always 
clean. 

Louise. — Yes, and so is their little room, altho' 
they have nothing in it but two chairs, a table 
and a bed. 

Charlotte. — I am so glad you told me about 
her. I will go home this very evening, and tell 
Father, and I know he will help them. 



Public Speaking. 43 
public speaking. 

Andy. — How would you like to be a public 
speaker, Ed., and astonish all the world with 
your eloquence ? 

Ed. — As for being a public speaker, I might do 
very well, but as to astonishing all the world 
with my eloquence, is quite another thing. 

Andy. — Why, if you would give such a fine dis- 
play of your oratorical powers as you did upon 
last examination day, you would astonish any one. 

Ed. — Indeed ! to tell you the truth, Andy, I was 
so much frightened at the sound of my own voice, 
I thought it was an echo from the distant hills, and 
when I had ceased, and they began applauding 
me, it was with difficulty I found my seat. 

Andy. — I never tried to speak but once, and 
then I lost voice, sight and hearing. 

Ed. — When did you come to your senses 
again ? 

Andy. — Just in time to see some impudent 
fellow standing where I should have been, thun- 
dering away like Jupiter. 

Ed. — [laughing] — It goes pretty hard with us 



44 Public Speaking. 

at first. I will never forget Louis Steele's speech. 

Andy. — What of it ? 

Ed. — -Here he comes, let him tell it himself. 
[Louis comes in.'] Andy and I have been talking 
about speaking, and I was just going to tell him 
about your first effort ; bat tell it yourself. 

Louis. — [Addressing Andy.] — Well, you see, I 
had been preparing for weeks on one of Web- 
ster's best efforts, and when I rose I could not 
for the life of me, remember anything else than, 
" You would scarce expect one of my age, to 
speak in public on the stage," and I recited it 
and took my seat amid the applause of the 
whole school. 

Andy. — Well done, Lou., you are not so easily 
discouraged as the rest of us ; some of our most 
eminent speakers have failed at first. 

Ed. — Yes, there was Patrick Henry, whose 
father thought he had disgraced him, and many 
others whom I could mention. 

Louis. — The greatest trouble with me at first 
was to know how to dispose of my hands ; I 
never felt before they were such useless appen- 
dages to the body. 



Public Speaking. 45 

Andy. — And what about your legs ? 

Louis. — Oh ! they sustained themselves very 
well, with the exception of a little tremor about 
the knees. 

Ed. — I thought I would shake myself out of 
my boots the first time, but I really believe I 
could stand in slippers now. 

Andy. — Almost any person of fine voice, and 
natural ability, can speak well, if they only lose 
consciousness of themselves. 

Louis. — -Yes, that was the difficulty with me 
at first, I would arrange my hair, fix my shirt 
collar, and like the old fellow in Dickens, 
" thought of my deportment generally." 

Ed. — Yes, I remember one time your collar, 
which was only pinned to your shirt, came loose, 
and set us all to laughing. 

Andy. — Bo}'s laugh about half the time, with- 
out knowing why, and I have often thought to 
speak before our own classmates, was the 
severest ordeal we could pass through. 

Louis. — But after all they are the best critics, 
altho' very severe ones. 

Ed. — And if, in after years, we should rise to 



46 Public Speaking. 

any distinction, they never forget the first dif- 
ficulties we had to encounter. 

Andy. — No ; and I'll venture to say there is 
not one boy in school that does not remember 
my silent speech. 

Louis. — Half of them have called you Quaker 
Andy, ever since, and say you would have done 
first rate, if " the spirit had only moved you." 

Ed. — By the way, Louis, are you going to 
speak at our next exhibition ? 

Louis. — Yes, I am preparing a declamation in 
German, of which not one in five will vish tay a 
word. 

Andy. — I would like to get up one in Greek, 
only I am afraid it would puzzle me more than 
it would them. 

Ed. — I always intend to deal in plain English, 
and plenty of good common sense. 

Louis. — That is right, and if, in ten or fifteen 
years from now, there should be two or three 
applicants for the White House, I will venture 
to say, the man of good common sense will get it. 

Andy. — If you mean that Ed. is going to be 
honored with such a position, I will apply in 



Riches. 47 



time for an appointment to some Foreign Court. 

Louis. — I would rather take the out-fit, and stay 
at home as his private secretary. 

Ed. — Well boys, don't be building too many 
castles in the air, for if I am to support them all, 
I am afraid they will give way and crush us. 

Andy. — Let them go, we can soon rebuild, 
and in doing so may we all live to testify to the 
world that Common Schools are the nurseries of 
great minds, as well as great men. 



RICHES. 

Mary. — Don't you wish we were rich? I 
think rich people are so much more happy than 
poor ones. 

Kitty. — Because they have every thing they 
want, and can get new dresses every day. 
Why, Mary ! that silk I had on the other day, is 
the nicest dress I have, and it was made out of 
my sister's old one. 

Mary. — That is always the way they do with 



48 Riches. 



us, dress us up in the clothes that our big sisters 
have outgrown. I wish I would start growing, 
like Jack's bean, in the night, and get up in the 
morning head and shoulders above them all. 

Kitty. — So do I, or else leap from girlhood in 
a day, and say I would wear short dresses no 
longer. There is Molly Brown, that is not an 
inch taller than I, and she put on long dresses 
six months ago. 

Mary. — Oh ! her parents are rich, and they 
humor her in every thing. 

Enter Cally. — What are you talking about, 
girls ? Hope I don't intrude. 

Kitty. — Oh no, Cally, we are always glad to 
see your sunny face ; we were talking about 
rich people, and wishing we could get every 
thing we wanted. 

Cally. — O, girls, do you ever think how much 
more you have than thousands of others, and 
how thankful you ought to be. 

Mary. — Of course we do, but there is Molly 
Brown that gets every thing. 

Cally. — But is ~ShA\y any the happier for that ? 
No, indeed ! When we were playing at recess. 



Riches, 49 



the other day, she came and leaned her head 
upon me, saying, " O Cally, but I am tired. I 
wish I had the rosy cheeks, and bounding steps 
of Mary and Kitty, and I never would think the 
days so long." 

Kitty. — Poor girl ! I used to think she thought 
it was not lady-like to romp and play like the 
rest of us. 

Mary. — And /thought it was for fear of spoil- 
ing her nice clothes. 

Cally. — Well, you see how you can both be 
mistaken, for we have played together since we 
were children, and she was always pale and 
delicate. 

Kitty. — I am so glad you told us this, Cally, 
for now I shall never be envious of her fine 
clothes, or riches. 

Mary. — And I will be much better contented 
with my sisters old ones, altho' they are almost 
torn off me. 

Cally. — How do you tear them so ? 

Mary. — I have never found that out, but if 
there is a nail, hook, or any thing within reach, 
away goes my dress. 



50 QUARRELING. 

Kitty. — Just so with mine. One day, one of 
the boys called out, " Kitty, where do all your 
streamers come from ?" and looking round, I 
found I had torn my dress from top to bottom. 

Cally. — What does your mother say, when 
you go home ? 

Kitty. — She was going to whip me, last time, 
but Father said it was only an accident, and 
would 'probably not happen again. 

Mary. — He may well say probably, for I know 
that one on you, will never see Saturday night 
whole. But come, let us go and play, if we 
have to mend our dresses afterwards. 



ON QUARRELING. 

Tom, [exercising with clenched hands.] — I bet I 
can whip any boy in school. Just look at my 
muscles (showing them), who says they are not 
strong ? 

Dick. — I wouldn't like to bet, as I have no 
money, but Ben Bosley can whip you, any day. 

Tom. — Whip me ! why didn't you see me 



Quarreling. 51 



throw him down, the other day, and hold him 
until he cried " enough ?" 

Dick. — But one of the boys told me you had 
the advantage of him in a good hold, and was 
afraid to try it over. 

Tom. — I was no such thing as afraid, only I 
had to hurry home, for I promised not to stop on 
the way to fight. 

Dick. — Then your Mother knows you are a 
great fighter, does she ? 

Tom. — O yes ! she says I'm just like Father. 

Dick. — Is your Father a good fighter ? 

Tom. — The best in all the country, altho' he has 
never had to do any of it, for everybody is afraid 
of him. 

Dick. — Well, I never considered myself good 
at it, but I would like to have a little round with 
you, merely to see how strong you are. 

Tom. — I don't feel as strong to-day as usual ; I 
have been working very hard, but any other 
day, I suppose, will do just as well. 

Dick, [rolling up Ms sleeves.] — None of your 
backing out ; now or never. 

Enter Sam, [pushing Dick back.'] — What is the 



52 Quarreling. 

matter, boys, in for a fight as usual ? I am 
ashamed of you, before all these people. 

Dick. — I get so tired hearing Tom tell what 
he can do, and what he has done, that I thought 
I would try him, but he always has some excuse 
or other. 

Sam. — Well, I suppose the truth is, he don't 
want to fight. 

Dick. — He won't come out and say so like a 
man, but he is a little tired, or a little weak, or 
has to hurry home. 

Tom. — Well, sir, you have said enough ; I will 
meet you to-morrow, and if you don't see stars, 
I am very much mistaken. [Goes out.] 

Sam. — What is the use of quarreling with him, 
he is just like one of these dogs that bark a 
great deal, and never bite. 

Dick. — I know it, but I cannot help getting 
angry at him. He said he could whip Ben Bos- 
le} r , and I knew that was false. 

Sam. — Why Ben is the best fighter in school, 
but he is one of those quiet sort of fellows, that 
never shows his pluck until he is roused. 

Dick. — And then he is such a noble boy, he 



Quarreling. 53 

always gets one of his own size, and if he does 
whip him, he don't go round telling it to every 
one. 

Sam. — No, indeed ; I never heard him boast 
of his strength in my life. You ought to have 
seen him collar a boy of fifteen, the other day, 
that was fighting with a little fellow half his 
size. 

Dick. — I don't like fighting of any kind, but I 
will never let a boy impose on me. 

Sam. — You like it much better than I do, or 
you would not have gone so far as you did last 
Saturday, to see a dog fight. 

Dick. — It was Tom Gordon took me to see his 
famous dog Rover, that like his father, could 
whip everything in the country, and I never saw 
a dog so badly whipped in my life. 

Sam, [laughing.'] — I am glad of it ; he tried 
any way to get up a fight with mine, the other 
day, but Carlo, like myself, was always inclined 
to be peaceable. 

Dick. — Do you know, Sam, I often think peo- 
ple's dogs are very much like themselves. Now 
there is Tom's, for instance, that looks as if he 



54 Quarreling. 

was full of fight, and he invariably gets whipped. 

Sam. — Not always ; I saw him whip a little 
dog, the other day, about a year old, and you 
would have laughed to have seen him come up 
to Tom, wagging his tail, as much as to say, " i" 
have done it now, old fellow" Do you suppose 
Tom will remember what he said, and make you 
" see stars to-morrow," as he promised ? 

DrcK. — He will think of it, but that will be 
about all ; it is not the first time I have tried to 
get up a quarrel with him. 

Sam. — I would not associate with him as much 
as you do, for I notice you are growing more 
like him every day. 

Drciv. — That is what they told me at home, 
the other evening, when I tried to get up a fight 
between our cat and dog, and the dog had the 
eyes almost scratched out of him. 

Sam. — What fun you can have in that I can- 
not see, but it is just the nature of some boys. 

Dick. — I don't believe it is my nature at all, 
and I intend giving it up entirely, but not until I 
give Tom Gordon the best thrashing he ever 
got in his life. 



Play Houses. 55 



ON PLAY HOUSES. 

Hatty. — girls, you ought to see my play- 
house ; it is large enough to stand in. 

Ellen. — Could we all three get in it ? 

Hatty. — Yes, six of you. 

Carrie. — Have you got carpet on it, and 
chairs in it ? 

Hatty. — No, but I am going to get some ; I 
have two boxes covered with pretty calico, for 
stools, and a little wash stand and pitcher. 

Ellen. — Have you any chairs, table or bed ? 

Hatty. — Not yet ; you can't expect a person, 
when they go to housekeeping, to get every 
thing in a day. 

Carrie. —No indeed ; sometimes they get the 
house, and never have anything to put in it. 

Ellen. — That is the way with me. I have 
very few things, and Biddy says she believes I 
am glad when she breaks a dish, so that I can 
have it for my playhouse. 

Hatty. — Why I wouldn't have broken dishes 
at all, if I couldn't get whole ones. 



56 Play Houses. 

Carrie. — I have not any of either kind, and I 
know I have the prettiest playhouse of all. 

Ellen. — Do tell us what it is like. 

Carrie. — It is under our great big apple tree, 
at the foot of the garden, with moss I gathered in 
the woods for a carpet, and acorns for cups and 
saucers. 

Hatty. — What a playhouse ! 

Ellen.— Is it cool and shady ? 

Carrie. — Yes indeed, the sun only peeps at it 
in the afternoon, and close by is a little stream, 
that runs down into the valley below. 

Hatty. — I w r ould like its being shady, for mine 
is so warm 1 cannot stay in it thro' the day. 

Ellen. — Oh ! I know I would like Carrie's, for 
I remember that big apple tree, when we lived 
near her in the country. 

Carrie. — And you remember the apples, too. 
don't you, that we hid in our aprons, and put 
away in our drawers to ripen. 

Ellen. — Yes, but I remember better than 
all, the time I threw up a large stone, to hit a 
big ripe one, when down came stone, apple and 
all, on your head. 



9 



Play Houses. 57 

Hatty. — I suppose you gave her the apple to 
keep quiet. 

Ellen. — Of course, altho' I never believed I 
hurt her half as much as she said I did. 

Carrie. — I never knew before the stone hit 
me, I thought it was only the apple. 

Ellen. — There, didn't I tell you ; but hark ! 
girls [listening], I think I hear the bell. 

Hatty. — It can't be school time yet, for Sally 
Sloan has not come, and you know she is as re- 
id ar as a clock. 

Carrie. — If all clocks were like ours, they 
would never be called regular. Sometimes it 
takes a start and runs at a great rate, then stops 
for a week. 

Ellen. — I suppose it is getting old, and thinks 
it ought to have time to rest. 

Carrie. — Pa says he has had it over forty years, 
and they only insure good clocks now for a year. 

Hatty. — It was just so with ours, and after 
the year was up it stopped, until we had it in- 
sured for another. 

Ellen. — You would be a bad agent for some 
of the clock manufactories. 



58 Fourth of July. 

Hatty. — You are very much mistaken, I could 
sell more in a week, than half of them do in a 
month. 

Carrie. — On tick, I suppose ? 

Hatty. — Yes, on tick, for a few months merely 
to try them, and as they generally go so well at 
first, there is not one in five but what would buy 
them. 

Ellen. — You had better turn your attention 
to that business, while Carrie and I will be con- 
tent for some time yet with our play houses. 
There comes Sally now, let us all go and meet 
her. 



FOURTH OF JULY. 

Stanley. — It seems so long since the Fourth of 
July was here. I wish it would come to-morrow. 

De Witt. — It don't come as often as Christ- 
mas, does it ? 

Stan. — I forget now, but I don't think it does, 
at any rate it don't seeni to last as long. I have 
often wished Washington had more birthdays, 



Fourth of July. 59 

for you know we always get to stay at home 
then. 

De Witt.— So do I. I wanted to stay at 
home, the other day, to spin my new top, and 
told Mamma I was a little sick ; so she put me 
to bed, and put my top on the mantle, where I 
could see it all the time. 

Stan. — You got well very soon, did you ? 

De Witt. — I bet I did ; and you will never 
catch me doing that again, for Mamma laughed, 
and asked me if I did not think the best medi- 
cine I could take would be my top. 

Enter Harry [with a paper soldier cap.] — Look 
here boys, at the pretty soldier cap Tom Bur- 
nett made me to march on the Fourth of July. 

Stan. — You will have to get epaulettes of 
blue paper, stripes down your pants, and some- 
thing for a sword or gun. 

Harry. — Yes, I know Tom gave me enough 
of paper, and he is going to make me a fine 
sword. 

De Witt to Stan. — I think he is too little to 
march in our company, and then if we go far 
he always gets so tired. 



60 Fourth of July. 

Stan. — No he don't ; he helped us carry the 
flag, last time, and all the boys said he looked 
like a little General. 

Harry. — There now, Mr. De Witt, you al- 
ways talk as if you was the captain. 

De Witt. — Xo I don't, only the big boys don't 
like to have such little ones as you along. 

Harry. — Put me in the wagon, then, and pre- 
tend I am Tom Thumb. 

St ax. — So we will, and trim it all around with 
pink and blue paper ; but I don't believe Mam- 
ma will give us any money to buy it. 

Harry. — I'll go and see. [Goes out.'] 

De Witt. — If you are going to put him in 
that wagon, you can get Bill or Pat to pull it, 
for I won't do it. 

Stax. — I didn't ask you to pull it. I can get 
enough of boys that would do it any time, just 
to get in our company. 

De Witt. — Who is going to beat the drum ? 

Stax. — Andrew Cutter. He is about the best 
drummer in town of his age, and then he keeps 
such good time in marching. 

De Witt. — Every body will be looking out to 



Fourth of July. 61 

see us, as they did last time, when they heard 
our drum, and thought it was the Guthrie Greys 
coming. 

Stan. — May be, if we learn to march well, the 
Greys will let us join their company, when we 
get big. 

DeWitt. — Would we have to go to war then? 

Stan. — Yes, if there was any. 

De Witt. — I don't want to join, then ; I would 
be afraid to go to battle, for fear I would be 
killed. 

Stan. — Why you always pretended to be so 
brave, we were going to put you in the fore- 
most ranks. 

De Witt. — So I am, if there is no danger of 
being killed; but who could be brave if they 
expected to be shot every minute. 

Stan. — I must go and see if the other boys 
are getting ready for the Fourth, so that we can 
take up our line of march with the other com- 
panies. [Goes out.'] 

De Witt [calls after him.'] — Don't forget to put 
me in the front ranks. I'm not afraid of crack- 



62 Tkoubles of Childhood. 



TROUBLES OF CHILDHOOD. 

Nelly [talking to herself ^\ — It's always the 
way. I never have anything nice, but Mother 
gives it to the baby. 

Enter Susy. — What's the matter, Nelly, you 
look as if you were going to cry. 

Nelly. — No wonder ; the baby sucked all the 
paint off my doll's face yesterday, and chewed 
the lid of my little paper box all up. 

Susy. — That's just the way our's troubles me. 
Sometimes I wish there never was any such 
thing as a baby, but for all that they are very 
sweet sometimes. 

Nelly. — Sweet indeed ! I get tired hearing 
Ma call our's her sweet little thing, her pet bird, 
her little beauty, and her precious child. 

Susy. — Did you ever notice how everything 
goes to their mouths. Why only last night our 
" little comfort " (as they call her at home), ate 
four or five pages of my Fern Leaves. 

Nelly. — It ?nust be a comfort to have such a 
baby. I believe they are all alike, for our's di 



• 



Troubles of Childhood. 63 

the same ; and Ma didn't forget to tell Pa, when 
he came home, how fond their " little beauty " 
was of books. 

Susy. — Charley and Frank think she troubles 
them far more than me, for she always wants 
their kites, marbles and tops, and Ma always 
says, "boys, remember she is your little sister, 
be kind to her.'''' 

Nelly. — And if she don't get them, she soon 
will, by crying a little. 

Susy. — yes ! Ma takes her up, and says 
the dear little thing's heart is almost broken, and 
Frank, thinking he has done something dreadful, 
gives her everything he has. 

Nelly. — I wish they were as kind to us when 
we are grown up ; I am sure we are not half as 
much trouble, and far more useful. 

Susy. — To be sure we are. Why I run er- 
rands to the grocery, bring the milk in, and tie 
the boys' shoe strings. 

Nelly. — For all of which w T e get cracked on 
the head w r ith thimbles (don't it hurt), and 
are told half dozen times a day, we are the 
most troublesome children in the world. 



64 Tkoubles of Childhood. 

Susy. — 1 never believe half of that, for I al- 
ways try and mind Ma, although she gets cross 
sometimes, and tells me to get out of her way 
when I'm not in it at all. 

Nelly. — How often I do wish I was as large 
as Sister Kate. She never gets a whipping, 
has no playthings to give the baby, goes out 
when she pleases, and dresses as much as any 
lady. 

Susy. — Every little girl wants to be larger. I 
was so glad the other evening when I was 
studying my lesson, I heard Pa tell Ma I would 
soon be as large as her. 

Nelly. — Won't that be nice, for I know big 
people never have half as much trouble as chil- 
dren. They can get a piece of bread and butter 
whenever they are hungry, and drink as much 
tea and coffee as they like. 

Susy. — And it never makes them sick, or 
keeps them from sleeping, altho' they say it will 
make children lie awake all night. 

Nelly . — And if there is anything good on the 
table, it is never for children, only just a taste, 
enough to make us want more. 



Professional Men. 65 

Susy. — If we coax for it, we are sent away 
for being naughty, and after promising to be 
good, we just come in as somebody else is taking 
all in the dish. 

Nelly. — And if we come near crying, we 
have to swallow it down, take what they give 
us, and go early to bed. 

Susy.— One thing, Nelly, we can never be 
children but once, and I guess they all have a 
great deal of trouble ; but I do wish we could 
grow up, like Jonah's gourd, in a night. 



-«♦►- 



PROFESSIONAL MEN. 

Frank. — How would you like to be a profes- 
sional man, George ? 

George. — Don't think I would like it all ; 
never saw one in five that amounted to any- 
thing. 

Frank. — But what if you happened to be the 
one in five that did? 

George. — No fear of that ; it don't run in the 



66 Professional Men. 

family to have a weakness that way, altho' 
Mother always had a great idea of my be- 
coming a minister. 

Frank. — A minister, indeed ! I think I see you 
with a white handkerchief on, adorning the pulpit. 
You are far better suited for a counting room. 

George. — There is an old saying that if there 
are three sons in a family, the smartest one is 
intended for a lawyer, the second a doctor, 
and the third a minister, which was the only 
reasonable hope I ever had of becoming one. 

Frank. — I always thought they intended me 
for a lawyer, but if that rule holds good, I don't 
think I could adorn the profession. 

George. — Why not ? you have fine oratorical 
powers, good voice, and very persuasive manners, 
which could not fail at least to please your lady 
clients. 

Frank [assuming quite an air.] — Do you think 
so. Why really, I must take the matter into 
consideration, for I think many a young man has 
mistaken his calling. 

George. — "And is lost to society, lost to him- 
self, and lost to his friends. 1 ' 



Peofe ssional Men. 67 



Frank. — I had one brother a professional man, 
who was very well qualified for his profession, 
but it was not adapted to him. 

George. — How was that? 

Frank. — It never yielded a good per centage 
on the investment of his talents, and he " threw 
physic to the dogs," and went into the grocery 
business. 

George. — He was a doctor then? 

Frank. — Yes, and a very good one. There 
wasn't a woman or child in the whole country that 
didn't think " he brought healing on his wings." 

George. — What a loss he must have been to 
the profession. 

Frank. — -Yes, he was. I went round collect- 
ing for him, and I came home far more over- 
whelmed with blessings than money. 

George. — People never feel like paying a 
doctor's bill after they get well. 

Frank. — For that reason I think I would pre- 
fer the law to anything else. 

George. — It is decidedly the best of the three, 
for if you only get a case now and then, you 
can always " make it pay." 



68 Professional Men. 

Frank. — Anything for making money; I never 
had any very conscientious scruples about what I 
pursued. 

George. — Well, I have, and for that reason I 
have chosen the grocery business. 

Frank.— Then I suppose you will not " sand 
the sugar, water the molasses, and mix the 
flour." 

George.— Not I ; I have had a better example 
set me than that, by a scrupulous brother, who 
has been engaged in the business some fifteen 
years. 

Frank.— That requires more capital than the 
law, and a man has to choose according to his 
means. 

George. — True it does, but I can depend on 
some little assistance from my Father. 

Frank. — Is your Father a wealthy man ? 

George. — O no, but in very comfortable cir- 
cumstances, enjoying the good things of the 
world, and dispensing them very liberally among 
his children. 

Frank. — Did he make all his money himself? 

George. — Every cent of it, by prudence and 



Health. 69 



economy, aided by the good judgment of an 
energetic and industrious wife. 

Frank. — There are very few fortunes made 
that way now. We are not so slow and sure as 
our Fathers were. 

George. — No, but it is really the proper course 
to pursue, although it is called old fogeyism all 
the world over. 

Frank. — I wouldn't have any objections to be- 
ing called an old fogey, if I only had enough to 
entitle me to the name. 

George. — Nor I either ; give me the money and 
you may call me what you please. 



ON HEALTH. 

Rosa. — Did you ride in, this morning, Fanny ? 

Fanny. — Not all the way. I start with Pa, 
and if the omnibus overtakes us, sometimes we 
get in, and if not, I walk all the way. 

Rosa. — O dear, how tired you must be ; I have 
only five squares to walk to school, and think 
that far enough sometimes. 



70 Health. 



Fanny. — So did I, when we lived in the city ; 
but now I run through the woods and fields, 
gather nuts and gather flowers, until I feel more 
hungry than tired. 

Rosa. — You must love the woods very much. 

Fanny. — Indeed I do ; and when I bring in 
my little schoolbasket full of wild roses and 
violets for Ma, she says with a smile, " they are 
very pretty, Fanny, but not half so beautiful as 
the roses on your cheeks." 

Rosa. — I always noticed, when you came into 
school, how red your cheeks were, and wondered 
why mine were not so too. 

Fanny. — Because you do not run, and skip, 
and jump, as I do ; such things are not consid- 
ered genteel in a city. 

Rosa. — Oh ! of course not, and instead of 
gathering wild flowers, we are contented to ad- 
mire them in milliners' windows. 

Fanny. — I have seen some of our girls walk- 
ing along the street, with a step as slow and 
measured as if they were over sixty. 

Rosa. — And then complaining of being as 
tired when they reached school, as if they had 



Health. 71 



walked all round the world. I know / have felt 
so often, and would rather rest myself than join 
the girls in their plays. 

Fanny. — You ought to see me, Rosa. Brother 
George and I sometimes run a race before break- 
fast, and, altho' he is older than I, I always beat 
him. Pa calls me his little reindeer. 

Rosa. — Why, what time do you get up ? 

Fanny. — A little after five ; it is so pleasant in 
the country, to hear the birds singing so early. 

Rosa. — Well, I never think of rising as early 
as that, for we have no music but rumbling 
carts and wagons, and then I never feel very 
well, even if I do sleep until seven. 

Fanny. — But you would feel so much better if 
you didn't sleep so long. Why I never know 
what it is to have a headache. 

Rosa. — We never know what it is to have 
any thing else at our house. Ma says she feels 
dull, and Pa says he don't feel much better, and 
if we have no appetite for breakfast, we always 
think it is the miserable way that Betty has 
cooked it. 

Fanny. — I don't believe there is a worse cook 



72 Anger 



any place than our Biddy, but because we 
always enjoy our meals so much, she talks of 
going to the city, where she can get higher 
wages. 

Rosa. — I hope it will never be our misfortune 
to get her. 

Fanny. — I hope not, until you have better 
health, and better appetites. By the way, Rosa, 
try the fresh air of to-morrow morning as a cure 
for your headache. 

Rosa. — Well, I will, and if your medicine 
don't help me I will have to resort to my 
old cure of sleeping. 



ON ANGER, 



Maria. — What is the matter, Dolly ? you look 
as if you had been pouting. 

Dolly. — Mattel* enough ; one of the girls told 
the teacher 1 played truant yesterday afternoon. 

Maria. — And did you, Dolly ? 



Angee. 73 



Dolly. — Yes, but I didn't mean to do so. I 
was following the soldiers, and when I got back 
the girls were out playing at recess. 

Maria. — And did you go in then ? 

Dolly. — Of course I did, and she would never 
have known anything about it, if it had not 
been for that little tell-tale. 

Maria. — Never mind her, Dolly, the teacher 
I know will forgive you. 

Dolly. — Oh ! she has, and was not cross at 
all when I told her all about it; but I do dislike 
tell-tales. 

Maria. — So do I; but you must not feel so 
angry at her. 

Dolly. — I can't help it. She came and asked 
me where I had been, and when I told her she 
was so angry she didn't see the soldiers too, that 
she wanted to have me punished. 

Maria. — You ought to be thankful you have not 
such a disposition, and are so much beloved in 
school. 

Dolly. — I remember of getting a little girl a 
whipping once, for which I got two when I came 
home. 



74 Anger. 



Maria. — And that cured you, forever after- 
wards, of telling tales. 

Dolly. — I think it did, and I only wish some 
more of them could be cured in the same way. 

Enter Jenny. — Come girls, let's jump the rope, 
I have such a nice long one. Molly Fisk and 
Maggy Means are going to turn it for us. 

Maria. — Dolly is angry at Molly for telling on 
her, and I suppose she is afraid she will trip 
her. 

Jenny. — 'What is the use of ever being angry 
at Molly. I know she does a great many things 
the girk don't like, but I never think of minding 
her. 

Dolly. — I cannot help minding her^ altho' she 
never keeps angry five minutes. 

Jenny. — You know, Dolly, she is an orphan, 
and the poor little thing has no person to teach 
her what is right and wrong, as we have. 

Maria. — That is the reason she seems so un- 
happy at times. I have often thought she looked 
as if she had no person to care for her. 

Dolly.— Well, I'll go, but I don't think I will 
ever like her as much again. 



Whiting, Reading, Etc. 75 

Jenny. — I'm not afraid of that; you'll forget 
all about it when you get to playing. 

Maria. — And before an hour, you'll have your 
arm around her, walking up and down the yard. 

Dolly. — -We will see. I am determined to tell 
her, the first thing, how much I dislike her, and 
how angry I am at her. 

Jenny. — And then make her promise never to 
get angry again, unless you should happen to 
see the soldiers when she didn't. 



ON WRITING, READING, ETC. 

Sam looking over a letter half finished. 

Enter Charley. — What is the matter, Sam? 
You look as if something had gone wrong to- 
day. 

Sam [somewhat gruffly] — I never knew it go 
any other way when I had a letter to write. I 
have been half the morning at it, and see all Pve 
done. 

Charley. — Probably you have finished and 



76 Writing, Reading, Etc. 

don't know it, just like some men who talk and 
talk on, long after they have said all and more 
than they intended to. 

Sam. — I never can tell when I am done, for 
sometimes I think I have stopped for good, and 
am about saying " yours respectfully," when 
Mother comes in and gives me a new start ; 
which only lasts long enough for her to leave 
the room, and leave me in a worse fix than ever. 

Charley. — I can feel for you, Sam, for only 
last Friday I had to get my Mother to assist me 
in composing one, altho' I promised if she would 
just tell me how to begin, I would go on myself. 

Sam. — -Well, how far did you go ? 

Charley. — Just as far as she had told me, and 
then finding myself in a worse situation than at 
first, I plead for her to give me another start. 

Sam. — I tell you, Charley, it is up hill business. 
Sometimes I feel like a wagon that had sunk 
deep into mud and mire, which a four horse 
team could hardly get out. 

Charley. — Do you think we ever will learn, 
Sam ? I try all I can, and it seems as if it was 
getting harder every day. 



Writing, Reading, Etc. 77 

Sam. — Oh yes ! Father says it was the great- 
est trouble he had when a boy, and now he 
writes like a book. 

Charley. — But they say letter writing changes 
as much in style and fashion as anything else. 

Sam. — That's true enough, for Mother says it 
used to be the custom to begin by "taking up 
her pen to let you know," or " taking the opportu- 
nity to inform you," etc.; and now it is, " yours 
of the 8th or 10th is received." 

Enter George. — Do you know, boys, that we 
have to read selections from the " British Poets " 
at our next examination ? 

Charley. — You don't say so. I hope I'll have 
a trial at the Battle of Waterloo. 

Sam. — How does it go ? I don't remember it. 

Charley. — " There was a sound of revelry by 
night, and Belgium's Capital had gathered there 
her beauty and her chivalry." 

George. — You must have practiced on that. 
For my part, I never could read poetry in my 
life. My voice falls so musically at the end of 
every line, that it would be very difficult to know 
whether I was! reading or sinking-. 



78 Weiting, Reading, Etc. 

Sam. — That's not the way with me ; I always 
get pitched so high when I start, that I have to 
keep it up, and the teacher says it sounds as if I 
was trying to make myself heard a mile off. 

Charley. — I have always thought it a great 
accomplishment to become a good reader, but 
have given up long ago ever being a good 
writer. 

George. — The only fault is you make too 
many flourishes, when if you would write a 
plain, unassuming hand, nobody would notice it, 
except to say it would suit for a lawyer's. 

Sam. — Do lawyers generally write so indiffer- 
ently ? 

George. — Yes, their's look as if they had 
practiced on pot hooks half their days. Why 
there is Judge Barney, that can't for the life of 
him read his own writing. 

Charley. — Why that is very encouraging for 
me, and a Judge too. Why after a while it will 
be said none but our fancy dry goods clerks can 
write legible hands. 

Sam. — I have heard persons say they could 
always tell the character of another by his or 



Wetting, Reading, Etc. 79 

her writing, but I don't believe a word of it. 
Here is a letter [holding it up] I have written to 
my dear Uncle, and while he is thinking (as he 
reads) what an amiable nephew he has, I have 
wished him in Halifax, fifty times. 

Charley. — Oh ! that is because you have had 
so much trouble composing it. 

George. — Why don't you get a book, as well 
as a lot of good old letters, from which you can 
take extracts. 

Sam. — May be they wouldn't answer the pur- 
pose, and then he would find out that which I 
am only afraid he'll know. 

George. — The best letter I ever wrote in my 
life was one I copied from a book, and sent to 
my cousin. 

Charley. — And did he reply to it ? 

George. — No, but I know the reason was he 
thought he could not write anything equal to it. 

Sam. — Well, that is a good way of stopping a 
correspondence. I'll try it, and see how it works 
with me. 



80 Examination Days. 



ON EXAMINATION DAYS. 

Fanny. — Don't you dread examination days, 
Rosa? Only one week more, and we will be 
ushered in before a lot of wondrous wise looking 
people, called critics. 

Rosa. — I think I do ; for if I am ever so well 
prepared, my ideas like birds take their flight, 
and leave my brain as barren as the nest. 

Fanny. — It is just so with me. Geography, 
grammar and arithmetic; all blend together, like 
one great problem that would take all the wits 
in the school to unravel. 

Rosa. — And then if we stop to collect our 
scattered ideas, they think we are extremely dull 
for doing so. 

Fanny. — Or if some girl (always noted for 
dullness) should chance to catch up the ravelled 
skein of our thoughts, and form it into language, 
she is acknowledged for once to be quite superior. 

Rosa. — That was the case the other day when 
I stumbled over a problem in Algebra, Sally 



Examination Days. 81 

Stone blundered into it, and astonished the class 
with her ready answer. 

Fanny. — The truth is, Rosa, it is not those 
girls that seem the brightest, that are in reality 
so. 

Rosa. — That is exactly the case. I try and 
make my teacher believe my ideas lie deep, from 
which arises my inaptitude for ready answers. 

Fanny. — And I too, but she looks very quizzi- 
cal, and hopes next time they will lie nearer the 
surface. 

Enter Kate. — Girls, do you know Dr. R , 



Professor G , and the Rev. Mr. B , are 

all to be present at our examination. 

Both reply. — Who told you ? 

Kate. — Why Brother Frank was summoned 
into our room, a few minutes ago, and three 
notes handed him for these same gentlemen. Of 
course I didn't see the inside, but I was always 
good at guessing. 

Rosa. — Oh dear ! whenever that Professor 

G looks at me thro' his glasses, I lose every 

idea I ever had. 

Fanny. — So do I. I always hated glasses, they 



82 Examination Days. 

look so professional ; but after all, they are bet- 
ter than the penetrating eye of Dr. R . 

Kate. — I don't care for him half as much as I 
do for our white kerchief friend, the Rev. Mr. 

B . He always appears like an abridged 

addition of history, and whenever he puts on 
one of his long faces, I get so nervous, waiting to 
hear what question he is going to ask, that if it 
was nothing more than, " who was the first 
man ?" I verily believe I would say, " I've for- 
gotten, Sir." 

Rosa. — He would not frighten me half as 
much if he would take off that white handker- 
chief. I don't see why ministers should wear 
them any more than other men. 

Kate. — Neither do I, only that it designates 
them from others. Do you know, Rosa, I think 
people that always try to look wise, are not half 
as much so as we give them credit for. Now. 

there is the smiling, pleasant Dr. R , that is 

not considered as deep as some of the professors, 
and all because he don't look and act intellectual. 

Fanny. — If some of them would relax their 
grave, knowing faces, and smile more approvingly 



Examination Days. 83 



upon us, there would soon be a bond of sympa- 
thy between us, and we would nut dread these 
examinations as a culprit dreads the court of 
justice. 

Rosa. — But as it is, I could not feel much 
worse to be tried for some criminal act, than to 
undergo the test of scholarship. 

Kate. — I wish the order of things could be re- 
versed for once, and they were compelled to sit 
up, and answer all the questions we choose to 
ask them. 

Fanny. — I don't think there would be much 
strife between them about who would go head, 
for as likely as not, " the last would soon be 
first." 

Rosa. — I would try them in spelling first, fo;' 
you know they are generally not very good at 
that, and if they couldn't spell phthisic, ps}*chol- 
ogy and pneumatics, I would say, "gentlemen, 
you can take your seats." 

Kate. — Wouldn't that be good; I tell you. 
girls, it would bring their dignity down a little, 
and they would have more charity for us 
But what is the use of talking, it is all the good 



84 Fishing. 

it will do us ; better go and study, and try and 
acquit ourselves with as much credit as we can. 



ON FISHING. 

Will. — What do you say, Nev., to go fish- 
ing, Saturday, to Saw-Mill Run. 

Neville. — Don't care if I do ; but we havn't 
any hooks or lines. 

Will. — I've got enough of money to get them, 
and if I havn't, Mother will give me some before 
that. 

Nev. — I suppose 1 will have to dig the bait, as 
usual, and carry it thro' town, as I did last time, 
in an old tin cup. 

Will. — What if you have, it is not very hard 
work, and as for carrying it in a tin cup, you 
may do as you please. I put mine in an old 
Seidlitz powder box the last time, and when I 
got there the box was empty. 

Nev. — I guess they didn't like the smell of the 
medicine. 

Will. — May be we can get Willy L to go 



FlSHIXG. 8 



o 



with us, if Aunt Lou. has not sent him to town 
on old Claybank. 

Nev. — Well, you had better take a hook and 
line for him, for I am not going to loan him mine 
all the time. 

Will. — I suppose I can give him mine occa- 
sionally ! 

Nev. — You only suppose, do you? I think I 
hear you say, "Nev., give Will your line a little 
while, I had a first-rate bite just now." 

Will. — Well, you know you never caught any 
thing but minnies, and what's the use wasting 
your time on them. 

Nev. — I caught a great deal larger fish than 
you did last time. 

Will. — That was a mistake the fish made ; he 
thought it was my line, because you held it still 
so long. 

Nev. — Who can hold his line still, when he 
know T s there is a fish nibbling at his bait, and he 
is in danger of losing both. 

Will. — You remind me, when you are fishing, 
of a bad driver, that is always jerking and pull- 
ing his lines. 



86 Fishing. 



Nev. — You talk very big indeed; but after 
Saturday you'll turn your tune, or I'm very much 
mistaken. 

Will. — No sir; I'll not turn my tune, if you 
keep pulling your line out of water every time 
the cork moves, expecting to get something. 

Nev. — Are you going to take your dinner with 
you? 

Will. — What's the use of doing that; I'm 
sure we can always get some at Grandmother's, 
even if their dinner is over. 

Nev. — Don't you think she will give us a dime 
to ride home in the omnibus ; she always does. 

Will. — And then you will walk, and save it 
for something else. 

Nev. — Of course I will. Who is going to pay 
a dime for a ride, when they can buy enough of 
candy to last two days. What are you going to 
do with yours ? 

Will. — I'll tell you when I get it. 

Nev. — Do you think the water will be deep 
enough to go in swimming ? 

Will. — Deep enough for you, for I never saw 
any person so much afraid of being drowned. 



Mischievousni: ss. 87 



Nev. — Who wouldn't be, if they couldn't 
swim ; and how am I ever going to learn, for 
Mamma says I must not go in until I do. 

Well. — You must not be afraid of being- 
drowned there, for the water is not deep enough 
to come up to your head. 

Nev. — I didn't think of that. It would take 
pretty deep water to cover me. [Stretching him- 
self up.] 1 believe I will soon be as tall as 
Father. 

Will. — Of course you will. You don't want 
more than three or four feet of being as tall 
now. I think I see him coming ; you had better 
go and measure. 

Nev. — No; but we had better go and finish 
that work he left us this morning, or we may 
have it to do on Saturday. 



MISOHIEVOUSNESS. 
Jes. comes in with a whip in his hand. 

Enter Rufus. — What are you going at now, 
Jes.? you are always up to something. 



88 M ISCHIEVOUSXESS. 

Jes. — Nothing in particular, only I ran off 
with Ma's whip, that she had put away for safe 
keeping. 

Rufus. — Were you afraid she was going to use 
it on you. 

Jes. — I did get one trial of it, and I thought I 
would save myself another, for it is smarting 
yet. [Rubbing his Ieg.~\ 

Rufus. — What had you been doing ? 

Jes. — Teasing the children. And no wonder; I 
never have a moment's peace when I am in the 
house ; if I get a slice of bread and butter they 
all want some, and after dividing it among half a 
dozen, 1 have none left for myself. 

Rufus. — But you didn't tell me why you were 
whipped. 

Jes. — I called them all babies, and pointed my 
finger at them, until the whole troop began to 
cry, and the first thing I felt was this whip ting- 
ling about my legs. 

Rufus. — Oh Jes. ! you are just as mischievous 
as you can be. All the boys say you are the 
greatest tease in school. 

Jes. — I know I am blamed for everything. If 



MlSCHlEVOUSN ESS. 89 

an inkstand is upset, a book torn, or slate 
broken, I did it all. I know I am full of fun, 
but never mean any harm. 

Rufus. — I heard you tied a little bell to the 
cat's tail the other day, and dressed the dog up 
in your sister's clothes. 

Jes. — That was only to please the children. 
Ma was going out, and I promised I would 
amuse them, if she would let me stay at home 
that afternoon. 

Rufus.— Do you get to stay at home often ? 

Jes. — Not very ; and if I do, they are sure to 
say, " it is well seen that Jes. was at home to- 
day, for every thing is turned upside down." 

Rufus. — You are the queerest boy I ever saw. 
and so full of your tricks, there is no trusting 
you. But I think I am a little too smart for you. 

Jes. — I know you are. But see, there comes 
your old friend Frank. 

Enter Frank. Rufus steps forward to meet Mm, and gives him 
his hand, during which time Jes. pins something to his coat. 

Rufus. — Why Frank, it seems an age since 
I saw you. You must have grown two inches. 
Frank. — I havn't grown as much as you. 



90 MlSC HIE V OUS NESS. 



Rufus.— Do you think so? I was really afraid 
I had stopped growing entirely, and you know I 
always had such an idea of being a tall man. 

Jes.— He looks taller than he did, since he got 
that new coat. Turn round, Rums, and let him 
see the cut of it. [Rufus turns round, when Jes. 
gives Frank the wink.] 

Frank. — Why really that is something new ; 
you'll take the shine off us all. 

Rufus. — JNfo danger when you are about, for 
the girls seem to have a particular fancy for you. 

Jes. — -Oh ! that is because he thinks so much 
of them. [Comes up and hoks very closely at him 
across the lights] I do believe he has really got 
a little fuzz on his upper lip. 

Frank.— \Fceling it.~\ — If you call that fuzz 1 
would like to see you raise something better. 

Jes. — I will in three or four years from now. 
But do see here, Rufus, there is a little more of 
it on his chin. [Upon which he puts his finger, 
and leaves a mark of smut.'] 

Rufus. — So there is. Why Frank you are 
really coming out ; my new coat won't be any- 
where now. 



Kind Remembrances. 91 

Frank. — I can't stand this any longer, for I 
believe you are both making fun of me. Come 
Rufus, I am going to the Post Office, to mail a 
letter for Father, and I want you along for com- 
pany. [Both go out.] 

Jes. — [Calls after them.] — Take good care of 
yourselves, boys, and don't let any person play 
any tricks on you. 

Both answer. — No danger, Jes., we are too 
smart for that. 



KIND REMEMBRANCES. 

Enter Luly, [with a small fruit basket.] — I am 
so tired, so warm too, this sultry summer day, 
but my little basket is full of the choicest fruit I 
could get for her. 

Enter Matty. — Ah Luly, is that you, and such 
beautiful fruit ; I told Bessie I knew you 
would bring it, and she is sitting in her chair, 
by the open window, listening for our footsteps. 

Luly. — Then she is better, Matty ? How glad 



92 Kind Remembkances. 

I shall be to hear her merry voice once more 
among the girls, and see the sweet smile that 
chased away the shadows of her young face, 
[t is almost eight months since she bade 
me good evening, and wrapped her shawl 
more closely around her, to shield her delicate 
form from the chilly winds of a December 
snow storm. 

Matty. — -How well I remember that evening. 
Ma and Pa felt so anxious about her, but she tried 
to dispel their fears, by saying she would be 
well in the morning, but morning came, and she 
was no better ; month followed month, and still 
she hoped that spring would find her once more 
with her playmates. 

Luly. — Dear, sweet girl, how we all loved her, 
do you know, Matty, I have often thought, those 
we loved most on earth, were loved most in 
heaven, and for that reason, the good and the 
gifted are taken from us so early in life. 

Matty. — I have thought so, too, but when 
Bessie told me to be more cheerful, her health 
would come with the violets and blue birds, T 
looked for their coming, as a wrecked mariner 



Kind Remembrances. 93 



would for the sight of land, and sure enough, 
the first heralder of spring found her sitting by 
the open window, inhaling the fresh air of 
morning. 

Luly. — But it will be a long time before her 
step is as light and fleet as it was a year ago ; 
she looked so lovely, in her simple white wrap- 
per, when I called the other day, quilling a new 
border for her Grandma's cap, while near her 
upon the window sill was a little basket of 
rustic flowers, Lizzy Lee had brought her. 

Matty. — All the school girls remember her, in 
their little offerings of love and kindness, and 
she . often says, such affection compensates her 
for her long confinement. She walked out this 
morning to see if the robins had built their 
nest in the old apple tree, but she said she could 
see nothing but the rosy cheeked apples, 
smiling from every limb. 

Luly. — Is their anything more beautiful than 
such ripe luscious fruit, just look at that 
[holding up one], is it not enough to make us love 
every thing that God has made. 

Enter Lizzy [with a bunch of ' flowers]— Who are 



94 Kind Remembrances. 

you tempting with that apple, you young Eve you. 

Luly. — As you are not Adam, you can rest 
assured it is not you, but do tell me, where did 
you get those beautiful flowers [looking at them.'] 

Lizzy. — Some I got from the garden before I 
left, but these violets and blue bells I gathered 
along the path thro' the woods. I was just on 
my way to see Bessie, and I knew these simple 
flowers would make me doubly welcome. 

Matty. — Ah Lizzy, you are always welcome, 
come as you will, the roses on your cheeks will 
make her more happy than those in your hand ; 
but do let me see those violets, they have always 
been her favorite flower. 

Lizzy. — They look as fresh and beautiful this 
morning, after last night's rain, as our little babe 
after its bath and sleep, and I could not help 
stealing some of them from their mossy beds as 
I came along ; look, too, at these blue bells. 

Luly. — How modestly they hang their heads 
among the garden flowers, like a rustic girl 
among city beauties ; much as I love our cul- 
tivated flowers, O how much more do I love the 
anemone, hawthorne, and periwinkle. 



Kind Remembrance-s. 95 

Matty. — Because they are associated with 
your early days, when you lived in the country, 
and thought God, and not man, cultivated the 
flowers. I remember how beautiful we thought 
the apple blossoms, and had our little chip hats 
all wreathed round with them, much to the 
admiration of all the little boys in school. 

Lizzy. — Why, even now I love the apple, 
peach and cherry blossoms more than all 
others, they are so profuse, so generous in their 
flowers, and give out so lavishly their fragrance 
to the air. But come, let us go, or my boquet 
will not be so fresh as I could wish it for Bessie. 

Luly.— And she will be weary looking for the 
basket of fruit, I promised to bring her so early 
this morning ; for it is almost noon, and the air 
so sultry, that fm afraid we will have a 
shower before we reach home. 



96 Beauty. 



ON BEAUTY. 

Jef. holding in his hand a pocket-mirror, in which he is gazing 
intently at himself. 

Enter Henry. — [Looking over his shoulder.]-— 
Well, Jef., what do you think of that young 
fellow in the glass ? 

Jef. — Pretty good looking chap ; don't you 
think so ? [Handing it to Henry, who takes a look 
at himself.] 

Henry. — Yes, he is much better looking than 
I supposed at first ; improves on close acquaint- 
ance. 

Jef. — But you have to look closely to see the 
points of beauty. 

Henry. — Oh, I don't know ; I think the nose 
is prominent enough, as well as some other 
features. 

Jef. — I wouldn't call a man handsome that 
hadn't a large nose ; and, besides, it is con- 
sidered intellectual. 

Henry. — I never knew that before. I always 
tli ought the forehead, rather than the nose, in- 
dicated mind. 



Beauty. 97 



Jef. — People of course differ. I have an un- 
cle that is blessed with a very capacious mouth, 
and he insists that it is the sign of a smart man, 
and brings up Henry Clay as an example. 

Henry. — I always believed strongly in good 
large mouths, for I never saAV a man with a 
small one that made a good orator. 

Jef. — That don't follow that a man with a 
large one always does. 

Henry. — We'll not discuss that point any fur- 
ther. But do tell me, Jef., do you always carry 
a pocket mirror ? 

Jef. — No, not always, but I find it very con- 
venient, when I want to arrange my hair or 
cravat. 

Henry. — Or look closely to find your beard. 

Jef. — It don't require a microscope to see that 
now, altho' I had almost given up ever having 
that essential point of beauty. 

Henry. — Say manliness ; beauty ought only to 
be applied to ladies. I remember the first time 
mother caught me with my face all lathered, 
just as I was going to use father's razor. 

Jef. — What did she say ? 



98 Beaut y. 



Henry. — She looked very quizzical, and want- 
ed to know how many more latherings I thought 
I would have to give it, before I got it clean. 

Jef. — Didn't you feel mean ? I know a boy 
always does, when he is caught trying to ape 
the man. 

Henry. — But that is something we all have to 
pass through, so that one cannot laugh at 
another. They say a boy don't think as much 
of himself at twenty as he does at fifteen. 

Jef. — I believe that is true, altho' I have 
thought a great deal of myself ever since I can 
remember. I had an idea, about a year ago, 
that I would make one of the handsomest like- 
nesses that could be found, and the result was, I 
had six of those twenty-five cent daguerreotypes 
struck off in one day. 

Henry. — Six ! what in the world did you do 
with them ? 

Jef. — There is not an old drawer, box or 
trunk I open in the house, but they are the first 
thing I see. Sister Lucy says she is going to 
collect them for distribution among the school 
girls.. 



Birthdays. 99 

Henry. — I had two taken last week, and if I 
ever had a spark of vanity left, it was gone as 
soon as I looked at them, which every body said 
were very good likenesses. 

Jef. — I think a daguerrean room is about as 
good a place to go to lose all conceit of your- 
self as any other you can find. 

Henry. — Well, I'm glad we have both made 
a trial of it, so that in future we will think 
more of our good behavior than our good looks. 



-«♦►- 



BIRTHDAYS. 

Enter Ally. — [Clapping her hands.] — Oh ! I'm 
so glad to-morrow is to be my birthday, and I 
know Pa will give me something pretty. 

Bella. — Don't you wish they would come 
oflener ? it is so long from one year to another. 

Ally. — I think I do ; but Ma says they come 
often enough, for between Bob and John, Sally 
and I, she has as many birthdays as she can 
remember. 



100 Birthdays. 

Bella. — I never trouble Ma about remember- 
ing mine, tho' I'm often afraid she will forget it. 

Ally. — Do you ever have a party ? 

Bella. — Yes, all the little girls I know. 

Ally. — You didn't know me last time ? 

Bella. — No, but I'll have you next time. We 
have cakes, candies and lemonade, play " blind 
man's buff," " pussy wants a corner," and " I 

spy-" 

Ally. — Ma will never let me have company. 
She says children are so much trouble, and soil 
every thing so, and she has enough of her own 
to make a party, any time. 

Bella. — How many are there of you ? 

Ally. — Only seven ; and Cally Lock's mother 
has thirteen. 

Bella. — I wonder if they ever keep their 
birthdays ? 

Ally. — No, I guess not, for little Kitty told 
me she never had a birthday, she "just growed 
up, like Topsy." 

Bella. — What do you think your Pa will give 
3 T ou? 

Ally. — I don't know; but may be a set of 



Birthdays. 101 

wkite China, for my playhouse. What did you 
get last time ? 

Bella.— A little cooking stove, with pots, 
pans and kettles, just like a big one. I built a 
fire in it one time, when Ma was out, and fright- 
ened her so much she took it from me. 

Ally.— Dear me ! did she never give it to you 
again ? 

Bella. — Yes, but made me promise never to 
put a fire in it, and who wants a cooking stove 
without a fire. 

Ally.— -There is always something goes 
wrong. The first time I had my table set for a 
tea party, George came running in, and John 
after him, and upset it, and broke half my 
dishes. 

Bella. — And have you never had a tea party 
since ? 

Ally. — Only once, and had to fix it on the 
floor, and then the skirt of mother's long dress 
upset the tea pot. 

Bella. — And of course she blamed it all on 
you. 

Ally. — Oh, yes ; she said I had better not 



102 Birthdays. 

take up so much room next time, which I thought 
of her, but didn't say anything. 

Bella. — I never have had any brothers to 
trouble me. 

Ally. — -You may be glad of it, for with boots 
and balls, swords and whips, they are into 
everything that don't belong to them. Only the 
other day, Bob ripped open my doll to see what 
it was stuffed with, and let all the bran out on 
the floor. 

Bella. — If that's the way they do, I hope I'll 
never have a brother. 

Ally. — And if I cry ever so little, they call 
me baby, tell me to look at myself in the glass, 
and see what a beauty I am. 

Bella. — Does your mother never whip them 
for teasing you ? 

Ally. — Sometimes ; but they laugh and say 
they were only in fun, and the minute she goes 
out, they are at it again. 

Bella. — I suppose they think that's smart. 

Ally. — Oh, yes ! Ben says he never saw a 
great man yet, but loved to tease the girls when 
a boy. 



Boys' Troubles. 103 



Bella. — How provoking ! I don't wonder your 
mother thinks she has enough, if boys are all 
like that. Don't forget to let me know to- 
morrow, what you get for your birthday gift. 

Ally. — / won't. Tom says I won't talk so 
much about my birthday when I'm an old maid. 



BOYS' TROUBLES. 

Enter Carter, eating a cake. Harry comes in. 

Harry. — Where did you get that sweet cake, 
Carter ? 

Carter. — I bought it at the bakery, for a cent. 

Harry. — Did Ma tell you to give me half of 
it? 

Carter. — No, but I will [giving him some], 
I was afraid to go in the house, for fear Sally 
would see it, and cry for it. 

Harry. — Do you know Sister Mary took 
almost all of mine, the other day, and gave her. 

Carter. — They always do that, and now she 
knows, if she only cries a little, she can get any- 
thing. 



104 Boys' Troubles. 

Harry.— She wanted some new marbles I had 
the other day, and I hid them all in my pocket 
before Ma saw them. 

Carter.— I tried to hide mine too, but she saw 
where I put them, and came toddling along, and 
put her hand in my pocket, and took them all 
out. 

Harry.— Did she keep them ? 

Carter.— Yes indeed j Pa and Ma thought it 
was so cunning in her, they gave me money to 
buy more. 

Harry.— She is a cunning little thing, and I 
cannot help loving her, for all she gives me so 
much trouble. Did you know, she tore all the 
leaves out of my Primer to make kites ? 

Carter.— Yes, and Ma hunted up strips of 
new calico for tails for them. 

Harry.— -She never thinks it a trouble to do 
anything for her, and tells us every day, we are 
enough to annoy the life out of her. 

Carter. — Well I guess boys are far more 
trouble than girls, or at least every body that has 
three or four think so. 

Harry. — I don't believe 1 was half as much 



Boys' Troubles. 105 

trouble as Sally; for Grandma knows, and she 
told me so. 

Carter. — Oh, Grandma forgets ; but I don't 
think either of us were petted like her. 

Harry. — Because we were not half so sweet. 
Pa says she is just like a lump of sugar, and you 
know a boy never could be that sweet. 

Carter. — Well, if we were not as sweet we 
were just as smart, for Sister Mary says I could 
say Jack and Gill before I was as old as her. 

Harry. — But you could not fix yourself at the 
glass, kiss your hand, and act the lady like her. 

Carter. — Boys never do those things, it is 
natural to girls ; all I care about now is to grow 
up to be as tall as Pa, and always have a watch, 
a black hat, and pair of boots. 

Harry. — But it takes us so long to grow. I 
get so tired waiting. 

Carter. — 1 believe we would grow faster if 
Ma would let us out in the rain, but she is 
always afraid we take cold. 

Harry.— Do you remember the first time we 
took an umbrella to school, all the little boys 
thought it was so great, and coaxed us to let 



106 Boys' Troubles. 

them stand under it, to hear how the rain sounded. 

Carter. — 'And you was so angry at me, 
because I wanted to hold it all the way, that we 
both carried it. 

Harry. — No wonder ; you always thought I 
was'nt half as big as you, because I wore aprons 
so long. 

Carter. — But you always felt just as big, 
excepting when there was some work to be 
done. 

Harry. — I always hated to run up stairs when 
I wanted to stay down, or go to the grocery just 
as I was going some place else, but I never 
thought I was lazy. 

Carter. — I don't think either of us are lazy. 
We only feel a little tired when Ma wants us to 
do anything, without she promises us a cent, but 
she don't do that very often. 

Harry. — Oh I forget, she told me to come home 
early to day, she wanted to send me some place. 

Carter. — Is she going to give you anything 
for going? 

Harry. — I don't know, but you had better 
come along: and see. 



Employment foe Women. 107 



ON EMPLOYMENT FOR WOMEN. 

Anna. — Have you ever thought, Ella, what 
would you do if you had to seek employment ? 

Ella. — Of course I have, and long since 
decided to be a school teacher. 

Jane. — A school teacher did you say? I 
would rather do anything else in the world. 
Just imagine me, taking charge of thirty or 
forty unruly girls or boys ; why, I would be in 
the Insane Asylum, in six weeks. 

Anna. — So would I. I often look at our 
teacher, as she leans her head upon her hand, 
and wonder if she never wearies of the occupa- 
tion she has chosen. 

Ella. — Oh, I think it is a glorious one; "teach- 
ing the young ideas how to shoot," and training 
the tender minds that are just stretching forth 
their frail tendrils for knowledge. 

Jane. — It seems very plausible when you take 
that view of it; but it is like governing a nation, 
to govern a school. 

Anna. — Why, only the other day I saw a boy 



108 Employment for Women. 

try to assume the mastery over his teacher, and 
told her, very authoritatively, he wasn't afraid of 
any woman. 

Ella. — Those are the very spirits I would like 
to quell, and you can generally do it, under the 
guidance of gentleness and love. 

Jane. — If I had charge of such a boy, I 
would bring the rod into use first, and tell him 
it was all for his own good, or in other words, 
administer it in " gentleness and love." 

Anna. — I would be afraid such love might be 
reciprocal, and I might chance to get more than 
I had given. 

Ella. — It is well, I suppose, we all think dif- 
ferently, or every branch of business would not 
have its numerous applicants. But you have 
not told us, Jane, what you would choose. 

Jane. — Selling dry goods ; it is so amusing to 
watch the different class of people that daily 
throng the stores. 

Ella. — And administer to the capricious taste 
of women of fashion, who come in, toss over 
one pile of goods after another, and leave the 
automatons (as they call them) behind the 



Employment for Women. 109 

counter, to gaze upon the disorder they have 
created. 

Anna. — Inferring, of course, it is their busi- 
ness, and they had better be doing something 
than be idle. Oh ! save me from selling dry 
goods, 

Jane. — Well, I acknowledge it is tiresome, but 
every branch of business has its cares, as well 
as its compensations. 

Ella. — Compensations indeed ! You get about 
half the amount of some upstart, whose airs en- 
title him to double the salary that should be 
yours. 

Jane. — I know it ; but how are we to change 
the rules that society has established for us. 

Anna. — By not submitting to them so tamely. 
I am not in favor of woman's rights, bat I do 
think we should share alike the wages that are 
equally ours. I am going to pursue a more in- 
dependent course than either of you. 

Both reply. — What's that ? 

Anna. — Keep a boarding house. 

Ella. — I think I see you with tw r enty-five or 
thirty persons to suit, and vary your fare as 



110 Employment for Women. 

much as you like, they will uniformly vary their 
complaints. 

Jane. — I suppose Ella thinks she would rather 
minister to the mind than the stomach. 

Ella. — Indeed I would, for 1 know the whims 
and caprices too well, of that class called 
boarders. 

Anna. — But I would be particular about the 
kind I would get ; not a dyspeptic, rheumatic, 
gouty old bachelor, or a nervous, hysterical old 
maid, should be admitted into my house. 

Jane. — Then you would have gentlemen and 
ladies, with small families, numbering from 
eight to ten, under twelve years of age, besides 
many others, that like the Irishman, would have 
no objections to your table, only that which you 
put upon it. Oh ! the annoyances of a boarding 
house preponderates vastly over dry goods stores 
and school teaching. 

Ella. — But you can't get Anna to yield that 
point. 

Anna. — No indeed ; give me a boarding house, 
with good markets, good appetites and good pay. 



Last Day of School, 111 



LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. 

Tom. — Ain't you glad, Fred., this is the last 
day of school. 

Fred. — Glad enough ; for it does seem as if 
this had been the longest, coldest winter I ever 
remember. Why altho' the sun is shining now, 
it makes me shiver and shake to think of it. 

Tom. — Oh the weather I dont care a snap 
about ; I could live in Greenland for all that ; 
but the reason I'm so glad the holidays are 
coming, is, that I never have half as much time 
to play as I want. 

Fred. — Play indeed ! That's something I 
never expect to have much of. If I'm at home, 
its " Fred., bring in some coal, Fred., bring in 
some wood, and mind now, and look after the 
children, Fred., or they may fall and hurt them- 
selves." 

Tom. — Oh dear ! what a time you must have. 
They try to play that game off on me at home, 
but when they want me they can't find me. 

Enter George. — What are you two fellows 



112 Last Day of School. 

talking about? You look as grave as if you 
were making laws for the state. 

Fred. — We are not making laws for the state, 
but I would like to make some new laws for the 
folks at home. 

George. — Why, what's the matter? 

Tom. — Not much of anything, only a little 
more work than his weak constitution can bear. 

George. — I'd like to see the boy that don't 
work at home. For my part, I try to do all I 
can. We must not forget, Fred., that our pa- 
rents clothe and school us, and they have had to 
work hard to earn what little money they have. 

Fred. — You talk as if you were a father your- 
self. But I tell you, George, I am not a bit lazy ; 
I would work all day for money. 

Tom. — Oh, its the money you want, is it ? You 
don't think clothes and books are as good as 
money. 

Fred. — Who does ? They would have to get 
us clothes and books any way. 

George. — But they needn't send you to school. 
only they don't want every body saying, tk what 
a great big booby that boy is ; pity he didn't 



Last Day of School. 113 

learn something, before he tried to be a gentle- 
man. " 

Tom. — The first dime I ever earned, was for 
putting in a load of coal, and when I came home, 
I was whipped for getting my clothes so dirty. 

Fred. — The first I earned was for shoveling 
snow off a pavement. 

George. — And what did you do with it ? 

Fred. — ^Bought candy, and made myself so 
sick, that it cost father three or four dollars for a 
doctor to attend me. 

George. — Then you have never liked candy as 
well since, or doctor's bills either. 

Tom. — I like candy very well yet, but every 
boy makes a fool of himself sometime or other, 
and after all turns out to be a fine man. 

Fred. — So they do, and I think in about fif- 
teen or twenty years from now, we will all be 
sober old men, laughing when we meet over 
the follies of our schooldays. 

George. — Well, if we all settle down in Cin- 
cinnati, and you both begin to hold your heads 
up a little too high, I shall not forget to remind 
you of the load of coal, and the doctor's bill. 



114 Dancing School. 
dancing school. 

Letty. — Helen ! you ought to see my beau- 
tiful new dress, all flounced and trimmed, for 
next Saturday afternoon's dancing school. 

Helen. — I don't believe it is half as pretty as 
mine. 

Letty. — What kind of a one is yours ? 

Helen. — Plain white, with worked ruffles on 
the sleeves, and a pink scarf for my waist. 

Letty. — Well, I don't care if it is, Ma says 
there will not be a little girl in the school 
dressed as well as I. 

Helen. — Why Lilly Lawson is always dressed 
better than any one ; and did you see how she 
pouted last day, because Monsieur wanted her to 
dance with Netty Thorpe. 

Letty. — That was all because Netty was not 
dressed as well as she. Her mother pets her 
so, she has spoiled her, and that is the reason she 
is not more of a favorite in school. 

Helen. — Brother George says she puts on as 
many airs as Fanny Eisner, and tosses her head 
a^ if to say, " I don't dance with every bodyT 






Dancing School. 115 

Letty. — Oh, that is all because she prefers 
Frank Curtiss, with his blue coat and brass but- 
tons, to him. I heard him tell her the other day, 
she was a perfect fairy. 

Helen. — I guess he is afraid we will find out 
she has charmed him, and he talks about her as 
if he didn't care for her. Do you know, Lilly, I 
think dancing school makes the boys and girls 
very vain ? 

Letty. — I think so too ; for I know that I love 
dress far more than I ever did, and it makes me 
feel unhappy to see others dressed better. 

Helen. — I dont feel unhappy about it, but I 
catch myself wishing I had a new dress for 
every day, and wondering if I won't look as 
nice, next Saturday, as the rest of them. I go 
skipping and dancing along the streets, as if all 
the world was one immense dancing saloon. 

Letty. — I forgot to tell you, Helen, I saw you 
" heeling and toeing " it all the way to church, 
last Sabbath. 

Helen. — Oh ! you don't say so. How ridicu- 
lous I must have looked. 

Letty. — And just behind you walked one of 



116 Music. 



the elders, with his little girl. " Now," said he, 
" Mary," pointing towards you, " you see why I 
do not wish you to attend dancing school." 

Helen. — That is too provoking ; I am ashamed 
of myself. But. I'll take better care in future 
when and where I take my steps, and you may 
rest assured it will not be on the way to church. 



-*•»- 



ON MUSIC. 

Agnes. — [Looking over a piece of music] — I 
never will learn to sing. Here I have been half 
the morning trying to get my voice up to the 
right pitch, and as usual, I get it too high or too 
low. 

Enter J ane. — What has gone wrong now, Ag? 
You talk as if you were very much dissatisfied 
with something or somebody. 

Ag. — The something is this piece of music, 
and the somebody myself. You know I have 
been taking lessons from the celebrated Mon- 
sieur De Vornev, and because I cannot put on 
the French airs, I never shall suit him. 



Music. 117 



Jane. — Of course not. Natural voices and 
natural people are all out of date. If the ladies 
don't talk, as well as sing affectedly, they are 
not at all fashionable. For my part, Ag., I would 
rather hear my grandmother sing " Bonnie 
Doon," than Monsieur De Vorney, some of his 
most celebrated pieces. 

Ag. — So would I. Those dear old fashioned 
tunes, are like old fashioned people, lovely in 
their very simplicity. There is " Home, Sweet 
Home," that won Jenny Lind more applause 
than many of her operatic pieces. 

Jane. — There will always be enough of sen- 
sible people to admire that kind of music, so 
don't become discouraged, Ag., if you don't 
turn out to be a French artiste ! 

Ag. — It is so much the style, now- a- days, to 
talk French, act French, and dress French, that 
we have almost lost our nationality. 

Enter Alice. — What are you discussing now, 
girls ; the Princess Eugenie, Paris fashions, and 
hoops ? 

Jane. — No, neither Eugenie nor hoops, for 
according to report, she has renounced that 



118 Music. 



fashion, but music and Monsieur De Vorney. 

Alice. — Monsieur De Vorney ! that paragon of 
music teachers ! do you know he tried my voice 
to its utmost capacity, and then told Ma all it 
wanted was cultivation. 

Ag. — I never heard him say anything else. 
Every voice, according to him, only needs culti- 
vation, to enchant the very songsters of the 
woods. Did you take any lessons from him ? 

Alice. — Yes I took one. 

Jane. — I remember it well; for we were so 
much amused at his manners and gesticulations, 
that we forgot every thing else, and after school 
was out, every girl was trying her best to imitate 
the new French teacher. 

Alice. — And I got so hoarse, trying to reach 
the highest notes, I did not regain my voice for 
three days. 

Ag. — That is the way it affects me, and Pa 
thinks I have a cold, and prescribes cough syrup 
after every lesson. 

Jane. — Is your Pa a judge of good music ? 

Ag. — Not at all; he don't know "Auld Lang 
Syne," from "Yankee Doodle," — but he snys he 



Music. 119 



is determined to give his children the advantage 
of a good musical education. 

Alice. — It may be all time thrown away, 
without you have a natural taste for it. My 
Father had very much the same idea, and after 
I had taken lessons for more than a year, without 
any improvement, he found he was wrong in 
urging me to go on. 

Jane. — I often think our parents have no idea 
how much of the best part of our lives are spent 
in trying to learn something, which can be of no 
posssible service to us hereafter. I remember 
my first attempt in sketching a horse. The girls 
laughed, and said all it wanted was the horns to 
make a good looking cow ! 

Ag. — If that was your first effort, I suppose 
it was your last. 

Jane. — No indeed; I went on trying for six 
months or more, and then gave it up, but not 
without a regret that I could not succeed, for 
drawing and music are two accomplishments 1 
would like to possess. 

Alice. — So would I ; but I find my talent lies 
in other things, and instead of singing operatic 



120 Boys' Bargains. 

pieces, I can sing lullaby's to the baby, and old 
fashioned tunes, to old fashioned people. 

Ac. — That is the kind of music I love, and if 
I could only suit the good folks at home, with 
simple heart-felt melodies, I would sing them as 
naturally as the untaught birds. 

Jane. — Then you must be content to be the 
ornament of the home circle, and not the star 
of a fashionable drawing room. 

Ac — So I would, and be thankful that my 
sphere was within the limits of that dearest 
of all places, " Home, Sweet Home." 



BOYS' BARGAINS. 

Philip comes in whistling, with his hands in his pockets ; meets 
Henry, who accosts him. 

Henry. — What makes you so happy, this 
morning, Phil. ? 

Phil. — Happy? Don't you see my new suit 
of clothes, new boots, and new knife [faking it 
out of his pocket], that I swapped with Jaek Yin- 
ton for his old one : who wouldn't be hap; 



Boys' Bakgains. 121 

Henry. — He didn't give you that new knife 
for your old one. 

Phil. — Yes he did, but I paid him forty cents 
to boot, and I believe now he has got the best of 
the bargain. The boys told me he would cheat 
me, and since I have looked at it more closely, I 
don't believe it is good steel. 

Henry. — Let me try it. [Cuts a stick, but uses 
the back part of the knife.] It won't cut the first 
bit ; I never saw anything so dull. I would make 
him take it back before an hour. [Gives it to 
Phil., who puts it in his pocket.] 

Phil. — That I will, and if he don't give me 
my money back, I will get father to sue him. 
He is a regular Yankee, out and out, always 
making bargains, swapping knives, and cheat- 
ing a fellow before his very eyes. 

Henry. — The little boys are as much afraid of 
him when they get five cents, as if he had the 
whooping cough or measles. 

Phil. — No wonder, for he is sure to get it from 
them, and give them something in exchange 
that is no better than whooping cough or measles. 

Enter Tom. — Do you want some candy, boys? 



122 Boys' Bargains 



[Giving them some.'] Jack Vinton and I have had 
just as much as we wanted. 

Henry. — Where did you get the money ? 

Tom. — I don't know where Jack got it. I 
didn't have any, but he must have had forty or 
fifty cents. 

Phil. — My money gone so soon! 

Tom. — Yours ? How is that ? 

Phil. — One of my foolish bargains. Don't 
speak of it ; if its gone, there is no use talking 
about it now ; but I don't feel quite as good na- 
ture d as I did a few minutes ago. 

Tom. — Make the best of everything. If we 
get cheated once, it makes us sharper the next 
time ; and if we get boxed on the side of the 
head, as I did this morning, it makes us more 
careful to look out in future. 

Henry. — What have } r ou been doing to have 
to be punished in that way ? 

Tom. — Not much of any thing, only as I 
passed the table wjiich was set for breakfast, I 
put my fingers into the sugar bowl, and had 
just got a nice big lump, when my mother caught 
me. 



Boys' Bargains. 123 



Phil. — I suppose she gave you your coffee, 
that morning, without any, as a punishment for 
your bad behavior. It was the only thing cured 
me, when I was addicted to the same habit, but 
I tell you, Tom, even now it is very hard to resist 
a big lump of sugar. 

Henry. — I cannot bear the sight of it, ever 
since I filled my pockets, and stole off where no 
one could see me to eat it. 

Tom. — Got sick, did you ? 

Henry. — The sickest boy you ever saw in your 
life. And when they told me if I would take 
my medicine good, they would give me a lump 
of sugar, I confessed all, for that was about the 
worst medicine they could have given me. 

Phil. — The only way to do with boys, is to 
give them all they want at first, and they will 
soon become satisfied. I remember once, some 
nice honey they had at home, but it only made 
its appearance on the table when we had com- 
pany, and of course I got but little. But one 
Sabbath, when they were all at church, I got all 
I wanted, and have never liked it since. 

Tom. — We are alike ; if we are told we can- 



124 Sabbath Schools, 



not have anything, it is the very time we want 
it most. I'll never forget my standing tip-toe on 
a chair, to reach some preserves, that had been 
put up high, when I lost my footing, and down 
came jar and preserves, all over me. 

Henry. — You must have been in a very sweet 
condition. But come, Phil., I see you have al- 
most forgotten your bargain of the new knife, 
and I promised the boys to join them soon in a 
game of ball ; you play don't you ? 

Phil. — That I do ; and here is Tom, that is a 
master hand at it. Come along, Tom, and we 
three can carry the day. [All go out.] 



SABBATH SCHOOLS. 

Addie. — Did you ever go to the Sabbath 
school, Ally ? 

Ally. — No, I hate schools of every kind, the 
teachers are always so cross. 

Addie. — You would'nt think so, Ally, if you 
came with me, our teacher is so good and kind ; 



Sabbath Schools. 125 

tells us all about Jesus, how he took little chil- 
dren (like us) into his arms and blessed them, 
and how much he will love us, if we try to be 
good. 

Ally. — It is so hard to be good, I don't believe 
I will ever learn how. 

Addie. — Yes you will, if you only come with 
me to Sabbath school. We recite verses every 
day, from the Bible and get red and blue 
tickets, and when we have enough, the teacher 
gives us some pretty little book in exchange for 
them. 

Ally. — And if you forget your verses, does she 
whip you ? 

Addie. — Oh no, she always forgives us, and 
tells us to remember them next time, and God 
will remember us. Have you a Bible, Ally ? 

Ally. — Yes, I have an old one that used to be 
mamma's, but aunty says it is not nice enough 
to carry out with me. 

Addie. — Our teacher says old Bibles are just 
as good as new ones ; they all contain the same 
reading, and God don't look anymore at the out- 
side of the book, than he does at what we wear. 



126 Sabbath Schools. 

Ally. — Well, I'll show it to you some day, for 
old and all as it is, I love it, because it was 
mamma's. I remember one rainy Sabbath of sit- 
ting on a little stool beside her, and learning 
the ten commandments, but it has been so long 
since I have almost forgotten them. 

Addie.— -Does your aunty ever teach you any- 
thing ? 

Ally. — No, she is always too tired, or too busy, 
says I ask so many foolish questions. She sent 
me to bed last night because I wanted to know 
if she was ever going to be married. Pa thinks 
so much of her, because she is his only sister. 

Addie. — Does your Father take you on his 
knee, when he comes home in the evening, ask 
you if you have been a good girl, and tell you 
stories from the Bible. 

Ally. — No, he says he don't know how r to tell 
stories, but he takes me on his knee, and I know 
that he loves me, because I look so much like 
Mamma did. 

Addie. — Do you remember how your Mamma 
looked ? 

Ally. — Not very well; but I remember she 



Sabbath Schools. 127 

was very pale, and coughed a great deal, and 
when I knelt down in my little night dress, to 
say my prayers, she always laid her hand so 
softly on my head, and then kissed me good 
night, before Katy came to put me to bed. 

Addle.— Do you say your prayers every night, 
now? 

Ally. — Yes, but I say them in bed, and when 
I shut my eyes I think I hear Mamma's footstep 
coming, as she always did, to see me before she 
went to sleep. 

Addie. — Don't you think, Ally, if your Ma was 
living now, she would let you go to Sabbath 
school with me ? 

Ally. — Yes, I know she would, and if I tell 
papa what a good place it is, he will send me. 
Will I have to learn a verse for the first day ? 

Addie. — Some easy one, and if you sit beside 
me, I can help you remember it. And after you 
have gone three or four Sabbaths, you will 
never want to stay at home. 

Ally. — Do you sing any ? 

Addie. — Oh yes ; we all sing together two 
pretty little hymns, called " little drops of water," 



128 Menageeie. 

and " I want to be an angel." You don't know 
how pretty it sounds to hear so many voices. 

Ally. — Well don't forget to call for me. I 
will have my bonnet on, waiting lor you at the 
front gate. 

Addie. — I won't. Good bye, Ally. I'll be sure 
to be there. 



THE MENAGERIE. 

Enter Jack, [with a newspaper, from which he 
reads aloud the following]. — " Van Amburgh's ex- 
tensive Menagerie. The largest in the country. 
On Vine, between 4th and 5th. Wonderful 
performances. Tickets 30 cents. Children un- 
der nine years of age, 15 cents." 

Enter George. — What are you looking at so 
closely, Jack? 

Jack [looks up]. — Oh George, is that you ? Just 
look here at this picture of a man putting his 
head into the lion's mouth, and another stand ing 



Menagerie. 129 

with his foot on the tiger's neck. Do you be- 
lieve they do such things ? 

George. — Of course they do. I was in yester- 
day afternoon, and they did all that and far 
more. 

Jack. — Who took you ? 

George. — Took me ! I went alone. Why you 
are not afraid of caged animals, are you ? 

Jack. — No, I'm not afraid if they only stay in 
their cages, but when that old lion roars, it 
makes every hair on my head stand right 
straight up. I went once when I was a very 
little boy, and I dreamed every night afterwards 
that the old lion was tearing me up, and the 
tigers and bears were after me. 

George.— I was a little afraid at first, when 
the man went into the cage, the animals 
seemed so cross, but he gave them meat, and 
then commenced playing with them, just like 
we would with dogs. 

Jack. — If I had a show, I would have nothing 
but monkeys ; they are so cunning, and never 
hurt any body. 

George. — They have lots of them in there, 



130 Menagerie. 

but they steal everything they can get hold of. 
I had a paper of nuts in my pocket, and while 
I was looking at a little one hanging by its tail 
from the top of the cage, an old ourang outang 
took every nut I had. 

Jack. — They say elephants steal too. Have 
they any of them in there ? 

George. — Yes, the biggest one I ever saw. 
He looks as if he could crush a giant. 

Enter Bill. — Boys, do you know the show and 
circus is in town ? 

Jack. — We were just talking about it. George 
was there yesterday afternoon, and he says it is 
the greatest one he ever saw. 

Bill. — I always liked the circus better than 
the show, the clown is so funny, and the horses 
and riders are so beautiful. 

George. — The best part about it is the 
elephant. He is far funnier than the clown. 
Just think of him standing on his head. 

Bill. — Standing on his head ? Why I can 
hardly do that myself, and I'm sure I'm not as 
clumsy as him. 

Jack. — And they say he dances. 



Menagerie. 131 



George.— Yes ; and just about as well as 
some men that I have seen, although his feet 
are rather large for the fancy dances. 

Jack. — You wouldn't catch me lying down, as 
that man does, and having the old elephant step 
over me. If he had done it a thousand times 
right, I would still be afraid he might tramp on me. 

Bill.— Or take me up with his trunk, and 
swallow me alive. Dear me ! I wouldn't be a 
keeper of an animal show for the world ; but I 
would like to go every day and see them. 

George. — Have you been there yet ? 

Bill.— No ; I have grown so much since the 
last one was here, that they won't let me in now 
for fifteen cents, and I'm afraid I can't raise 
thirty. I gave a boy a cent for looking through 
a notch hole in the fence, from which he said he 
could see the Bengal tiger, and when I looked 
there was nothing to be seen but the top of the 
tent. 

Jack. — They try that with every new boy that 
comes round, and then run off laughing, to let 
some other one take their place. 

George. — If I was the keeper of a menagerie, 



132 Menagerie 



I would have one day that I would let every poor 
little ragged boy in for nothing. I would be 
just as happy, because I had done what was 
right, as the little boys would be that got in. 
But I must go and see if I can get mother to let 
me go this afternoon. [Goes out.] 

Bill. — Jack, can you loan me a dime? I 
have only twenty cents, and I wouldn't miss see- 
ing it for anything. 

Jack. — I don't know whether I will or not. 
You are the best fellow to promise, and the worst 
one to pay, I have ever seen. 

Bill. — Never mind, Jack, I'll be true to my 
word this time. Just try me. 

Jack. — [Gives him the money.] — I have often 
heard father say if you don't want to be troubled 
with a man borrowing, give him what he wants 
the first time, and he will never come to borrow 
again while he owes you ; but that rule don't 
hold good with you, Bill. 

Bill. — Circumstances alter cases, particularly 
where menageries are concerned. But come 
along, Jack, you will find my word, this time, as 
good as my money. 



Boarding Houses. 133 
boarding houses. 

Enter Tiney with her Utile sewing box. Is met by Augusta. 

Augusta. — Where are you going, Tiney ? 

Tiney. — I am going over to help Lizzie Tay- 
ior dress her new doll. 

Augusta. — Did Ma say I should go along ? 

Tiney. — No, she wants you to stay with Nora 
until she comes back ; she has just washed and 
dressed her, and wants her to keep sweet and 
clean until Papa comes home. 

Augusta. — Did you know Pa saw a house to- 
day that he thought he would get for us ? 

Tiney. — No ; where ? I was not here when 
he came home to dinner. 

Augusta. — I don't know where ; but he said it 
had a beautiful little yard for us to play in, and 
he told Ma the grass was so green, and he 
would plant beautiful flowers and vines in it, 
and she seemed so happy that she almost cried. 

Tiney. — Oh, but Pm glad. Pm so tired of 
boarding houses that I always feel unhappy 
when I go home with the little girls from school, 
that have as much room as they want. 



134 BoAEDixa Houses. 

Augusta. — So do I. And there is Cousin 
Johnny that thinks this place is nicer than his ; 
but he wouldn't if he had to stay here all the 
time. 

Tiney. — No, indeed ; but he always thinks 
every thing is nicer than he gets at home. Do 
you know one of those cakes I gave him yester- 
day, that came from his mother's, he said was 
so much better than theirs ? When did Pa say 
we would move, Gussy? 

Augusta. — As soon as we could. Ma is going 
down to see the house to-morrow, and we will 
know when she comes back. 

Tiney. — Won't it be nice, Gussy, for us to 
have a little table of our own, with only iive or 
six plates upon it. and if Ma don't want to come 
down to tea, I can sit at the head of the table, 
and pour out for Papa. 

Augusta. — And I can wait on Nora and 
George, bring in the hot cakes, and take Ma's 
tea up stairs on a waiter. 

Tiney. — And I will get up early and go to 
market with him, and bring home my little bas- 
ket full of nice, fresh vegetables. Won't we all 



Boarding Houses. 135 

foe happy, for children, as well as grown people, 
love to have a home some place else than in a 
boarding house. But I must go, or Lizzie will 
think I am not coming. [Goes out, and Nora 
comes z?i.] 

Nora. — I was looking for you every place, 
Gussy. Ma said I must stay with you until she 
came back from Aunty's. I gave George a cent 
just now, to buy me some candy, but he hasn't 
come back yet. 

Augusta. — How long has he been gone ? 

Nora, — I don't know, for it always seems so 
long when I am watching for him. I stood at 
the door until I got tired. 

Augusta. — 'What if he has eaten it all. You 
know he likes it so much that he keeps tasting 
it all the time until there is none left. 

Nora. — Well, if he has, Pa will give me an- 
other cent, when he comes home. But I will 
never give him my money to buy candy again. 

Augusta. — [Taking from her pocket a doll 
apron. ~\ — Do you see that, Nora, I made it for 
your doll, to-day. 

Nora. — I'm so glad. Ma told me I should 



136 Studying. 

have one if I was a good girl, and didn't soil 
my clothes ; and I havn't, Gussy, have I ? 

Augusta. — No, I never saw you keep them 
clean so long, but that is because you didn't get 
your candy. 

Nora. — I wonder if George won't soon come 
Let's go and look for him, Gussy, and I will run 
up stairs and get my doll, and we will sit on the 
steps until he comes back. 

Augusta. — Well hurry, Nora, and bring my 
bonnet with you, for if Ma stays away long, we 
will go to Aunty's, and see what keeps her. 



ON STUDYING. 

Enter Lizzy with her book. Is met by Anna. 

Anna. — Have you your lessons all perfect to- 
day? 

Lizzy. — Perfect, indeed ! I might study for 
weeks, and I could never arrive at that. I have 
been all the morning at these nouns, pronouns, 
participles and adverbs, and my lesson is not 
any clearer to me than when I commenced. 



Studying. 137 

Anna. — Probably you don't understand it ? 

Lizzy.— I know I don't, altho' it is " Pinneo's 
Grammar Made Easy." Now it may seem very 
easy to him, but he wouldn't think so if some 
other man had written it, and he had to study it. 

Anna. — I have never found any difficulty un- 
derstanding it, and you would not if you only 
had more patience. 

Lizzy. — Patience ! don't you call it patience to 
rise at five everjr morning, and study an hour 
before as well as after breakfast. The truth is, 
Anna, I do think it is the dryest study in the 
world, and I don't believe half of the girls un- 
derstand it any better than I do. 

Anna.— It would seem not, to hear how im- 
properly some of them speak. Did you hear 
Becky Brown say this morning, " the teacher has 
not saw the letter I wrote home." 

Lizzy.— Oh, yes ! that is generally the way 
she speaks, and there is not a girl in school that 
has her lessons in grammar better. But did you 
ever notice, Anna, how much more easy it is for 
some girls to learn than others ? 

Anna. — Yes; there is my sister, that never 



138 Studying 



looks in a book, and she is always above me in 
the class. 

Lizzy. — How is that ? 

Anna. — She says she hears me studying my 
lessons, as I always do, out loud, and in that 
way learns hers. 

Enter Laura. — Girls, did you hear our teacher 
was going to leave us in about two weeks ? 

Both exclaim. — You don't say so. I'm so sorry. 

Laura. — Yes, they say she is going to be 
married to that long face, ministerial looking 
man that comes here so often. 

Anna. — Why I thought he was a city colpor- 
teur, but the secret is all out now. 

Lizzy. — And / thought he was a school di- 
rector, because he seemed to take so much 
interest in us. Do you remember how he 
patted me on the head, one day, and asked me 
if I loved my teacher ? 

Laura. — Oh, yes ; why didn't you put the 
same question to him, and tell him you would 
have him sent home to learn his lesson, if he 
didn't answer more promptly. 

Lizzy. — How sorry I am we are going to 



Studying. 139 

lose her. She was so kind, and so affectionate, 
and when I became disheartened with my 
lessons, she would always cheer me with words 
of encouragement and kindness. 

Anna. — 1 know we will never have one we all 
loved so much. She always smiled so sweetly 
when she said good morning, as she passed into 
school. Last summer, when the roses where in 
bloom, Lizzy and I tried to see who could 
arrange the prettiest boquet for her desk. 

Laura. — I don't believe he knows what a nice 
wife he is going to get, or he would certainly 
look happier. Did you ever see a man with 
such a long face ? 

Lizzy. — Oh, that is natural to him. Pleasant, 
good natured women, almost always get grave 
looking men, like him. 

Anna. — She can make him smile, if there is 
any sunshine in his heart, and there must be in 
the little spot where she dwells. Let us all join 
together, and get her something pretty, for a 
parting gift. 

Laura. — I'm so glad you thought of it, Anna, 
I know we can do it, and the girls will aid us so 



140 C o tr s i x s . 



willingly. Come, let us go now and see what 
they think of it, and we will commence our 
good work to-morrow. 



COUSINS. 

Lizzy.— Who gave you that nice ripe apple, 
Stanley ? 

Stanley.— Grandmother gave it to me. She 
was paring some for dinner, and told me not to 
let the rest of you see it, or she would have none 
left for apple-sauce. 

Lizzy. — She always says, whenever one gets 
any thing, the rest come in like a flock of sheep 
to get some too. I'll never forget a nice large one 
she gave me one day, and because I disobeyed 
her, and showed it to the rest, she called me in, 
and divided it between us. 

Stan. — It must have tasted good, for they say, 
the less we get of any thing, the better we 
like it. 

Lizzy. — Except whippings, and I'm sure I 



Cousins. 141 



never could like them, altho' I don't get very- 
many. 

Stan. — Neither do I ; but you ought to hear 
De Witt : he commences screaming the minute 
he sees the rod, and mamma lets him off with as 
little as possible, for fear he rouses the neigh- 
borhood. 

Lizzy. — Did you hear him hallooing the other 
day, because I bit his finger, in taking a bite of 
his apple ? 

Stan. — Oh, yes ! but I knew his finger didn't 
hurt him half as much as the big bite you took. 

Lizzy. — 1 thought so too, for he was examin- 
ing his apple far more closely than his finger, 
and muttering something about almost half of it 
being gone. 

Stan. — He is very kind when we don't impose 
on him, but who can help taking as much as 
they can get of any thing good? 

Lizzy.- — I know I can't, for yesterday I got at 
mamma's pound-cake, and only left enough for 
manners. 

Stan. — I think your manners would have been 
much better, if you had not touched it at all. 



142 Cousins 



Lizzy. — I suppose they would, but I couldn't 
help it, for every thing good is kept for company. 

Stan. — Or until it gets so stale, that it is only 
fit for children. Did you hear about uncle 
George asking grandmother what was the mat- 
ter with some preserves they had on the table 
one evening for tea ? 

Lizzy. — Yes, and how she laughed when he 
told her it was because she hardly ever gave 
them any thing so good without there was some- 
thing the matter with it. 

Stan. — He must have been making fun, for I 
never saw as good things any place as we get 
there. 

Lizzy. — Is that the reason you come up every 
summer ? 

Stan. — Of course not ; it is because we all 
like grandfather and grandmother so much ; 
they are so kind to us, and dont scold any. 

Lizzy. — Yes they do, on rainy days, when we 
are all in the house. Grandfather says we are 
enough to put him crazy, and if we don't make 
less noise, he will send us all home. 

Stan. — But he never does ; f >r if w <■ arc quiet 



Cousins. 143 



a little while, he gets as good-natured as ever ; 
and when grandmother comes in, she is sure to 
tell us some pretty stories. 

Lizzy. — Do you remember the day she told us 
about the " Babes in the Wood," and the dear 
little kittens that fell into the dinner-pot ? 

Stan. — Yes, indeed ; for I felt so sorry I could 
not keep from crying, and she put her hands up 
to her eyes, and pretended to cry too. 

Lizzy. — But you didn't cry half as hard as 
DeWitt. Grandmother took him on her knee, and 
said he was a good boy, because he was so ten- 
der-hearted. 

Stan. — Oh, I had almost forgotten that grand- 
father sent me to look for his hammer, which he 
says some of the children have lost. 

Lizzy. — Well, you had better hurry back, or 
he will hammer you for staying so long. 

Stan. — Come, help me hunt it, Lizzy, for you 
know two can find any thing so much better 
than one ; and it was all your fault that I stopped 
to talk so long. 



144 Boys' Occupations 



BOYS' OCCUPATIONS. 

John. — I have been thinking for two or three 
days what I would do, when I'm a man, to make 
a living. 

Frank. — You are troubling yourself very 
young about that ; it is only a little while since 
you got your first pair of boots. 

John. — Boots don't make men, any more than 
hats, only they feel a little bigger. 

Frank. — I never felt any bigger since I put on 
my first pair, but may be it was because they 
were my brother's old ones ; but come, tell me, 
John, what you are going to do ? 

John. — Drive an express wagon. I know a 
boy that makes from fifty cents to one dollar a 
day, and then he gets all the rides he wants 
for nothing. 

Frank. — A dollar a day, did you say, John? 
that makes three hundred and sixty-five dollars 
in a year. What in all the world would you do 
with so much money ? 

John. — Well, I don't know ; that would trouble 






Boys' Occupations. 145 

me more than any thing else. But you can 
always find somebody to help you keep it. 

Frank. — I suppose so, for once I got a boy to 
help me keep fifteen cents, and he kept it so 
well, I never saw it afterwards. 

John. — But you have not told me, Frank, what 
you are going to do. 

Frank. — Sometimes I think I will either be a 
doctor or a shoemaker. 

John. — I wouldn't be a doctor for any thing, 
mending broken limbs, and always killing or 
curing somebody. 1 would far rather mend or 
make shoes. 

Frank. — I believe I would too ; for if you don't 
want to work yourself, you can always hire 
somebody to help you, and a doctor can't do that. 

John. — Don't you have to pay the men that 
work for you ? 

Frank. — Of course I have ; but I can always 
make enough of money to do that. 

John. — You had better sell for cash then, or 
you will not have much change in your drawer. 

Frank. — I intend doing that, for then a man 
always knows how much he has got. 



146 On Age. 



John. — Well, I hope you will always have 
plenty, so that you can help me when I get 
" hard up." 

Frank. — 1 always will, John ; and if I ever 
get in a " tight place," I know you will do the 
same. 



ON AGE. 

Cassie. — Did you ever notice how much respect 
Mary Sanford pays to the aged ? She says she 
always had a reverence for gray hairs. 

Letty. — So have I, but it makes a great deal 
of difference to whom they belong. Now, there 
is my dear old grandmother, whose silvery locks 
are to me more beautiful than any thing else, 
and when I look at them now, I cannot believe 
they were ever as dark as mother's. 

Cassie. — I often wonder how people feel when 
they see their " first gray hair." 

Letty. — I guess they feel very much like tak- 
ing it out ; for there is Uncle Will, that makes 



isr Age. 147 



way with every one that shows itself among his 
black locks ; he says they are perfect tell-tales. 

Cassie. — Tell-tales or not, they are some of 
the natural beauties that only add charms 
to age. 

Letty. — And for that very reason he don't 
want to be classed with those that have such 
" crowns of honor," for he says there is nothing 
about his appearance that will betray his age 
but them. 

Cassie. — It don't always follow that a person 
is old who is gray ; sometimes it is the result of 
trouble or disappointment. 

Letty. — I have no doubt it is disappointment 
with him, altho', like most of the gentlemen, he 
will not acknowledge it. 

Cassie. — Oh, no ; they wouldn't for the world 
have anybody think they were ever disappoint- 
ed. It is always to be understood that a gentle- 
man can get whom he pleases. 

Letty. — But they find they are mistaken, 
sometimes. 

Cassie. — Yes, but they only attribute that to a 
want of taste in the ladies, whom they think will 



148 On Age 



be sorry some day they have missed such a fine 
opportunity. 

Letty. — It is well there is such a diversity of 
taste, for I wouldn't for anything somebody 
would say yes to Uncle Will, and take him away. 

Cassie. — Why take him away, he would prob- 
ably bring his wife home. 

Letty. — Oh dear ! I would'nt like that either, 
for there would be no more room on his knee 
for any of us, and less room in his heart. 

Cassie. — You are mistaken, Letty ; love only 
enlarges the heart. 

Letty. — Uncle's is large enough now. He is 
the happiest man you ever saw. When he comes 
home in the evening, there is always a quarrel 
among the children, who shall get on his knee 
first; and when Christmas comes, you would 
think he was Old Santa Claus himself, he has so 
many presents for us all. 

Cassie. — No wonder you love him so much ; 
but he will probably try and find out if he can't 
get somebody to love him more. 

Letty. — Isn't it better to have the love of all 
of us, than one person ? 



Love of Parents. 149 

Cassie. — It depends very much upon who that 
person may be. If it is that sweet young lady 
I saw him with the other day, he cannot help 
being happy. 

Letty. — I suppose you mean Lilly Lyle. We 
tell him she is young enough to be his daughter, 
but he says he will not object to her age, if she 
does not to his. 

Cassie. — Don't trouble yourself any more 
about it, Letty, for if he gets Lilly, you will have 
tioo to love you instead of one. 



LOVE OF PARENTS. 

Lawrence. — Whom do you think you love 
most, Charley, your father or your mother ? 

Charley. — Indeed, I never could tell, for as a 
child I always said both, so do I say now. 

Lawrence. — Well, that is not the way with 
me, for altho' I have the highest respect for my 
father, there has always been in my breast a 
more tender feeling for my mother. 



150 Love of Parents. 

Charley. — Probably she has been more indul- 
gent to you than your father, and like many 
mothers, too ready to forgive your faults. 

Lawrence. — No it is not owing to that, but to 
the unceasing care and watchfulness, that she 
has always exercised over me since my earliest 
recollection. When father would sleep so 
soundly, worn out with the cares of the day, her 
ear was ever ready to catch our slightest calls, 
and minister so cheerfully to our childish wants. 

Charley. — My mother is not so, but I suppose 
it is owing to her delicate state of health. Al- 
tho' she loves us all as dearly as a mother 
could, she is often very impatient with us. 

Lawrence. — When I am sick, I think there is 
no hand can soothe my pain, and dispel my fears 
like my mothers. I have the most entire faith in 
her word, which I suppose cures me about as of- 
ten as her medicine. Many a good whipping 
has she saved me, by her kind intercessions with 
my father. 

Charley. — So has mine. I remember once of 
being sent out for a rod, and after examining half 
a dozen or more, before I could get one to suit. 






Love of Parents. 151 

I brought in a slender little stick and handed it 
to father, which excited the laughter of mother 
so much, she plead earnestly for my forgiveness. 

Lawrence. — Going out to hunt your own rod is 
about the meanest business a boy was ever en- 
gaged in, and yet I have done it often, amid the 
suppressed smiles of my brothers and sisters. 

Charley. — Who were always waiting outside 
to inquire very kindly y after it was all over, if it 
hurt you, and see if you had cried. 

Lawrence. — I used to watch very closely to 
see whether any of them laughed at me, and 
ran back very eagerly, to see if I couldn't get 
them whipped also. 

Charley. — I shall never forget an attempt to 
get one of my brothers a whipping, at whom I 
was angry, and told a falsehood to accomplish 
my purpose. 

Lawrence. — And did you succeed ? 

Charley. — No, I was found out, and had to 
admit the truth; but as mother talked to me 
with tears in her eyes, and expressed the grief 
which I saw she felt, I was melted with com- 
passion, and plead for forgiveness. 



152 Loye of Parents. 

Lawrence. — Oh, Charley, it is our mother's 
tears that wash away many a sin from our 
young hearts, that an unkind word would nurture 
into growth. 

Charley. — Yes, they have left a recollection 
that years can never efface, for it is their love 
for us that makes them flow, and children tho' 
we be, we know how deep is the source from 
whence they come, and that is the reason we 
feel a greater tenderness for one parent than 
another. 

Lawrence. — Well, I acknowledge I do, but at 
the same time father is so much of a com- 
panion, so much of a friend, and seems to 
participate so feelingly in all our wants, that I 
ought not to feel any preference. 

Charley. — The preference often all amounts to 
nothing. It is only a mere tenderness. The very 
same a father feels towards his daughters, rather 
than his sons. But as our hearts are wido 
enough ibr both, they can always claim equal 
share in our affections. 



A Colloquy. 153 



A COLLOQUY. 

Bill. — Fine day this, John ? glorious wind for 
flying kites ? 

John. — Yes, Bill ; but where is your kite ? 

Bill. — Up in that tree. Do you see that red 
and blue paper? I hate those trees. I never 
had a kite in my life that did not lodge on the 
highest limb. 

John. — Neither had I ; but I can climb first- 
rate, and will try to get it ; never fell off a tree 
but twice, and have been up half a dozen. 

Bill. — Do you call that good climbing. Why 
I never fell off in my life. 

John.— Yes; because you were always afraid 
to climb higher than your head. I remember 
one time some boy threw your cap up, and be- 
cause it lodged on the iron gate post, I had to 
get it for you. 

Bill. — We will not talk about that now. Here 
comes Fred, let us hear what he has to say. 

Fred. — Do you know it is almost one o'clock, 
and time for school ? 



154 A Colloquy. 

John. — Time for school ! whoever thinks of 
books, pen, ink and paper, when half the boys 
in town are flying kites ? 

Bill. — Why I saw one the other day that 
rose as high as the steeple of our church, and 
everybody stopped to look at it, as they passed 
along. 

Fred. — That was Bill Martin's. He was on 
the top of a house, and gave it full string, just 
as a fine gale of wind swept by. 

John. — I have half a mind to play hookey to- 
day, for I am very tired of school. 

Bill. — So am I ; I hate the sight of a book. 

Fred. — Oh no, boys, come along ; may be if 
you do, you'll be sorry, and then your father or 
mother may hear it. 

John. — I'm not afraid. There is Tom, and 
Bob, and Frank, that play hookey every week, 
and their parents have never heard of it yet. 

Bill. — Well, their teacher did, for he called 
them all up in school the other day, and made 
them tell where they had been, and they prom- 
ised never to do so again. 

Frf.d. — I always liked my teacher, and would 



A Colloquy. 155 

not do anything to make him angry at me, so / 
will go in, for some of the boys give him so much 
trouble. 

John. — Oh dear ! you talk like an old curate ; 
but stay, we have half an hour yet, let us have 
a turn at marbles. Mother says she is tired 
patching the knees of my pants, but who cares ? 
Come along, I have my pockets full of crystals 
and commies. [Rattles them.'] 

Bill. — Oh no, I don't care a fig for playing 
marbles. Let us go down here to the depot; 
they say there is going to be a great show on 
that vacant lot. 

Fred. — 1 believe I saw the canvas spread out 
this morning. But we wdll have plenty of time 
after school, you know it lets out at four. 

John. — Fred, do you know the dullest boys in 
school are the very ones that study most, and 
keep such good hours ? 

Bill. — Take me for example. I am always 
at the foot of the class, and I don't believe there 
is a boy studies more. 

Fred. — You must be thinking about something 
else, when you are looking en your book. 



156 Daily Annoyances. 

Bill. — Of course I am ; there are fifty things 
pass thro' my mind in a minute, but one would 
suppose something on a page you had gone over 
a half dozen times, could be remembered. 

John. — I can see very plainly you don't know 
how to study, Bill. Just bring your book round 
some evening, and I will show you. 

Fred. — Do come, boys, it is almost two o'clock, 
and I am ashamed to go so late. 

Bill. — Come along, John. Fred is right about 
playing hookey. I know half a dozen boys that 
have been sent to the House of Refuge, who be- 
gan in that way, and much as I dislike school, I 
dislike that place a great deal more. 



DAILY ANNOYANCES. 

Will.: — [Quite dcjected.~\ — Every thing seems 
to go wrong. I got a whipping the first thing 
this morning, and suppose I'll get another for 
spilling that milk. 

Tom.— What milk? 



Daily Annoyances. 157 

Will. — They sent me to the grocery for a 
quart, and coming home I stopped by the way to 
have a turn at marbles, when some blundering 
fellow upset it, and broke my pitcher. 

Tom. — Where did you leave it ? 

Will. — Right beside me, where I could take 
care of it. 

Tom. — You'll be more careful next time, and 
not stop by the way. Did you ever notice, Will, 
how some days, every thing seems to go wrong. 

Will. — Yes, and when I try to do the best I 
can, I am sure to do the worst ; but I guess it 
is all owing to the way we feel. 

Tom. — I think so too, for I notice when I feel 
cross, every other person seems so, and only 
this morning I kicked up a fuss with Bridget, 
because she wouldn't give me a piece when I 
wanted it. 

Will. — They seem to forget how good bread 
and butter tastes to boys that are hungry. 

Tom. — I sometimes tell Bridget she will make 
a good step-mother (for there is an old widower 
comes to see her), which pleases her so much, she 
always gives me the loaf to help myself. 



158 Daily Annoyances. 

Will. — There is nothing like getting on the 
right side of the girls; but somehow or other I 
never could do it. 

Tom. — Mslj be you'll understand it better 
when you get older. But come, Will, I want 
you to go down to the pond with me this morn- 
ing, to sail my new boat. 

Will. — I cannot go now, and I suppose when 
I go home there will be fifty things to do as 
there always is on Saturday. 

Tom. — Then it is not play day with you? 

Will. — No, indeed ; I run errands all the 
morning, and when I am washed and dressed in 
the afternoon, its " try and keep yourself clean," 
which means, " don't go out and play with the 
dirty boys on the street." 

Tom. — I don't like boys that are always afraid 
of dirt, for I never saw one of much account 
yet. 

Will. — Nor I either ; but I am almost sick of 
the sight of soap and water. Its wash, wash, 
wash, half a dozen times a day; and somehow 
or other, I never look any cleaner than the other 
boys. 



May Day. 159 



Tom. — No, if anything, you don't generally 
look as clean, but to-day your face shines like a 
mirror. 

Will. — No wonder ; I washed it three times 
before I got it to suit mother, and then she said 
the lights and shadows could easily be seen 
about my ears and neck. But I must go, and if 
I can get off, I will be down at the pond in half 
an hour. 

Tom. — Bring your penknife, and some of those 
new shingles with you, so that we can fix our 
boat if it gets out of repair. 

Will. — I will, and if I'm not there pretty soon, 
come back and coax mother to let me go. 



MAY DAY. 

Alice. — [Alone.] — I thought Florie had come ; 
she promised to bring me some leaves and flow- 
ers to make a wreath. 

Enter Florte, idly swinging her hat in her hand. 

Alice. — Where are the leaves and flowers ? 



160 May Day. 

Florie. — I forgot them, sister; but it was all 
Kitty Glen's and Sally Stewart's fault. 

Alice. — How was it their fault ? 

Florie. — They began telling me what they 
were going to wear to-morrow, and how much 
fun they expected to have, and I forgot entirely 
what you sent me for. 

Alice. — Will they be dressed very nicely ? 

Florie. — Yes, they are going to wear white, 
with blue sashes, and gipsey hats trimmed with 
wreaths ; but you don't like artificial flowers, 
Alice. 

Alice. — Like them ! Who does, when we can 
get so many beautiful things from nature ? Why, 
I would rather have nothing but the oak and 
maple leaves to form a wreath, than the rarest 
flowers that art could furnish. 

Florie. — Do you remember the beautiful one 
I made of the white and red clover-blossoms 
last year, as a gift for our May Queen ? 

Alice. — Yes, indeed ; and well do I remember 
the praise bestowed upon your humble offering, 
which was so fragrant with the freshness of field 
and meadow. 



May Day. 161 



Florie. — Whom do you think will be our May 
Queen, Alice ? 

Alice. — I do not know, unless it is Laura 
Lindsly ; she is so good and beautiful, that every 
one w r ould bring her a voluntary offering of fruits 
and flowers. 

Enter Kitty and Sallie. 

Kitty. — Are you talking about May-day, 
Alice ? Sallie and I can think of nothing else. 
I have counted the days and hours, and it seems 
as tho' it would never come. 

Florie. — It comes to-morrow. 

Sallie. — But even to-morrow seems a long 
w r ay off. I dreamed last night that I was all 
ready, waiting at the gate for the girls to call 
for me, when it commenced raining, and I awoke 
myself crying. 

Alice. — Oh, dear ! what if it should rain ? 

Kitty. — There w r ould be almost as many drops 
of tears as of rain. 

Alice. — But sunshine would dry them both. 

Florie. — To-morrow will be bright, I know, 
I will get Ma to " wake me early," for I am 
going to buy me a little tin-cup to drink out of. 



162 May Day 



Sallie. — There is a beautiful water-fall near 
our play-grounds, and away down among the 
birch and beech- wood trees is a place for fish- 
ing. I caught a dear little minnie on a pin-hook 
last Fall, and brought it home alive in my little 
bucket. 

Kitty. — Oh, that sweet place ! How w^ell I 
remember the snowy table-cloth we spread under 
the shade of the trees, into which we emptied 
the contents of our baskets. 

Alice. — I never grow weary hunting wild 
hVwers and rare pebbles along that little stream. 

Florie. — Neither do I, until I get hungry, and 
bread and butter never tastes as good any place 
as it does in the woods. 

Sallie. — That's true, Florie ; but I didn't think 
any person thought so but me. Have you a 
little basket of your ow r n ? 

Florie. — No, but I'll run and see if Kitty Carr 
w r ill loan me hers ; it is so pretty, and I'll take 
such good care of it. [Goes out.] 

Kitty. — Brother John told me they were going 
to take out a large rope for a swing. 

Alice. — Of all swings, there are none I love 



May Day. 163 

half as well as the natural ones formed by the 
grape vines in the woods ; and I think there is 
one in that large grove of oaks. 

Sallie. — I do wish we could have pic-nics 
often. I long so to. be a bird, and fly away off 
to some cool, shady place in the country. 

Kitty. — Well, see that, like a bird, you are up 
bright and early to-morrow morning, for eight 
o'clock is the hour appointed for our leaving, and 
we must be there punctually. 

Alice. — If it don't rain. 

Sallie. — Don't BSty rain, for fear my dream 
comes true. I know I shall awake often in the 
night, and listen for the pattering of the big 
drops on the roof, and only be satisfied when I 
find the stars twinkling, as if in very glee, at 
my childish fears. 

Alice. — It won't rain, Sallie ; sleep soundly, 
and the first day of May will find many glad 
hearts among our school girls. 

Kitty. — You are not a prophetess, Alice, but 
I hope you have guessed aright. At any rate, 
we will see ; so good-bye until to-morrow. Sallie 
and I will call for you early. 



164 Bab Habits 



BAD HABITS. 

Charley. — I hear you have taken to smoking, 
Harry, is it true ? 

Harry. — Not a word of it true. I took half a 
dozen whiffs of Joe Jackson's cigar, and I paid 
dearly for it. I was sick the whole night. 

Charley.— What a contemptible practice it is. 
Some boys think it looks so manly to go along 
the streets puffing a cigar, when if they only 
knew, every person is laughing at them. 

Harry. — I am ashamed to be seen with Joe in 
the streets. Altho' he is the son of a rich man, 
he will never be a true gentleman. 

Charley. — No, never, while he is given to such 
bad habits. I heard him boasting the other day 
that he had smoked seven cigars, and then 
added, with quite an air, " real, genuine Ha- 
vanna, boys, five cents a piece, and no mistake. " 

Harry. — He chews too, for I never see him 
that he don't offer me a cut. 

Charley. — Why offer you some ? I didn't 
know you ever used it. 

Harry. — It don't follow that a boy uses it be- 



Bad Habits. 165 



cause another happens to offer it to him. [Takes 
out his handkerchief, and a piece happens to fall on 
the floor. Charley picks it up.'] 

Charley. — No, this don't look like using it, 
but how happened it in your pocket ? You must 
have put on somebody's pants in mistake. 

Harry. — No, Charley, they are mine, and to 
tell you the truth, I am heartily ashamed of my- 
self, for only this morning I resolved never to 
touch it again. 

Charley. — And broke your promise ? 

Harry. — No, nor will not; it was made to my 
mother, and I never break a promise to her. 

Charley. — Then why do you carry it ? 

Harry. — To let the boys see I have it. They 
called me coward, and said I was afraid to 
chew. 

Charley. — Let them call you what they 
please. A boy is never a coward that obeys his 
parents [throws it away\, and tell them I said so. 
Joe Jackson will ruin half the boys in school. I 
heard him say the other day, Andy Burt was so 
green, he didn't know how to swear. 

Harry. — No person can say that of him for 



166 Kites 



he is as good at it as an old sailor, and thinks an 
oath a necessary affirmation of truth. 

Charley. — Poor fellow ; with all his faults he 
has a good kind heart, and that is the reason he 
has so much influence over the boys. 

Harry. — Yes, he would listen for an hour to 
some poor woman's story, and give her the last 
cent he had. I saw him take a ragged child 
home, the other day, that had lost its way, and 
you know, Charley, we cannot but admire these 
good traits in his character. 

Charley. — True, but at the same time we 
must not overlook the bad ones, but try and 
correct them in him by not imitating them our- 
selves. 



ON KITES. 

Bill. — How much money have you got, Bob ? 

Bob. — Five cents. Why do you wish to know? 

Bill. — Why Jack Morton wants me to go into 
partnership with him in the kite business, and I 
thought you would like to join us. 



Kites. 167 



Bob. — So I would; I can make as good a kite 
as any boy in town ; have lots of rags for tails, 
and a tin cup full of paste, to commence busi- 
ness any day. 

Bill. — That's first rate, for I havn't got any 
money myself, but plenty of paper to make half 
a dozen. 

Bob. — Where is Jack? I would like to see 
him. 

Bill. — Here he comes. Jack, Bob Miller says 
he has five cents, and will join us in making 
kites. 

Jack.— That is good news. Five and four 
make nine. We'll double our money in three 
days. 

Bill.— What did your aunt say about letting 
us have her front room, up stairs, for a show 
window. 

Jack.— She just laughed, and said it was a 
wonder I did not want the front parlor. I told 
her I did, but I thought she wouldn't like to have 
it turned into a store. 

Bill. — She was only teazing you. I wouldn't 
ask her anything more about it. 



168 Kites. 

Bob. — Neither would I. I can get either our 
cellar or attic ; but one is too high and the 
other too low. 

Jack. — There is no use trying to get a store ; 
let us sell them on the street, after school is out 
in the evening. 

Bill. — You both know John Wiley, don't you ? 

Both reply. — Yes. 

Bill. — Well, he went over to a store that had 
' ; to let " on it, the other day, and told them he 
wanted to rent it, to carry on the kite business. 

Bob. — What did the man say ? 

Bill. — He told him to go about his business, 
or he would send him kiting in the air. 

Jack. — Poor John ! he'll never forget the first 
time he tried to rent a place of business. But 
he thinks he is about as much of a man, as any 
boy I ever saw. 

Bob. — Oh yes ; he told me the other day he 
was far bigger than I, and you both know I am 
half an inch taller. 

Bill. — May be you are, but I think he has a 
much larger foot than you. 

Bob. — Larger foot did you say? [Slicking it 



0-host Stories. 169 

cut.] Where will you find a bigger foot than that 
on a boy of thirteen. 

Jack. — I don't know where, unless it is your 
other one. But come, boys, let us go to work on 
our kites, or the season will be over, and oar 
fine chances of making money gone for ever. 



GHOST STORIES. 

Alf. [Alone.] — I thought I heard something just 
now. [Looks around] 

Enter Dick. — So you did ; it was me. What 
is the matter, Alf.? You are as pale as a ghost. 

Alf. — [Frightened.'] — Ghost did you say? — 
Where ? 

Dick. — I did not say there was a ghost any 
where, only that you were as white as one. 

Alf. — [Drawing a long breath.] — Oh, dear ! I'm 
trembling all over. Those boys got me down 
with them into the cellar, which they made as 
dark as night, and then commenced telling ghost 
stories. 



170 Ghost Stokies. 

Dick. — And did you believe them ? 

Alf. — Of course not ; but just about the time 
my hair began to stand right up, and my eyes 
got double their size, that villain of a Tom 
Poole jumped out of an old barrel, with a white 
sheet around him, and frightened the wits fairly 
out of me. 

Dick. — When did all that happen? 

Alf. — Just now ; I got out somehow, scream- 
ing murder at the top of my voice, and made my 
way here as fast as possible. I know 7 I acted 
foolishly, but upon my word I couldn't help it. 

Deck. — You are very much like the Irishman, 
that didn't believe in ghosts until he saw them. 
What a good laugh the boys will have at you ! 

Alf. — Let them laugh ; there were some as 
badly frightened as I was. Jack Cady caught 
my coat-tail just as I was leaving, and he w r as 
so pale I thought he was the ghost itself. This 
is the second time they have frightened me in 
that way. 

Dick. — 'Why do you go then ? 

Alf. — I don't know, unless it is that I have 
always been so fond of hearing stories of any 



(sthost Stories. 171 

kind, particularly of ghosts or witches, and they 
are sure to come after me when they want to 
have some fun. Did they never frighten you, 
Dick ? 

Dick. — Yes, once ; but it was with one of 
those hideous false-faces that Jack Hyde put on, 
and /, thinking it w r as the Old Boy himself that 
was after me, ran as fast as any sinner would. 

Enter Fred. — How do you feel now, Alf. ? I 
thought the ghost had you for certain. 

Alf. — Feel ! Indeed, I never was more fright- 
ened in my life ; but you will never catch me in 
such a fix again. 

Fred. — I like to hear you talk, Alf.; but I 
wouldn't be afraid to bet, that before five hours 
we could scare you worse than ever. I came to 
see if Dick and you would go along with us this 
afternoon to get apples. 

(Both reply.) — To the country ? 

Fred. — Yes, to that large orchard of old Seit- 
zer's, about two miles out ; he is almost always 
asleep in the afternoons, and we can get w r hat 
we like. 

Dick. — If he is asleep, the old dog is wide 



172 Ghost Stories. 

awake, and 1 am about as much afraid of cross 
dogs as Alf. is of ghosts. 

Alf. — I should be too if I had been chased by 
them as often as you have. I'll never forget the 
time you made your escape from the orchard, 
and left your coat, shoes, and stockings all under 
the tree. 

Fred. — Didn't you get them, Dick? 

Dick. — Yes ; but not until I got a good shaking 
from old George, followed by the words, " the 
dieb ! the dieb 1 " as well as a long lecture in 
Dutch, not one word of which I understood. 

Fred. — I never was afraid of him ; he is so old 
he can hardly walk, and his old woman (as he 
calls her) and dog are not much better. 

Alf. — What will we take to carry them in? 

Fred. — Our carpet sacks, pockets, and pocket- 
handkerchiefs. 

Alf. — You seem to think it no sin to steal 
from him, and I always thought you a downright 
honest fellow. 

Fred. — Nor is it very much of a sin, for he is 
so close and mean he won't give one away, but 
will let them lie and decay upon the ground by 



Old Bachelors. 173 

the bushel. I think he will have more to answer 
for than we will. 

Dick. — The best way is, to ask him to sell us 
five cents' worth, and that is as much to him (for 
he is the greatest old miser in the country), as 
Hve dollars would be to some men, 

Alf. — And do you think that would satisfy 
them all, viz., the dog, himself, and old woman? 

Fred. — Oh, yes ! I have tried that often with 
him ; but as I happen to be broke this afternoon, 
I thought I would get my apples on credit. 

Dick. — Stealing is a new name for credit. 
But come, boys, don't let us argue the point any 
further; if a little money will bring the old 
Dutchman over, we will get all we want, and 
more than we bargained for. 



OLD BACHELORS. 

Enter Carrie and Mart. 
Carrie. — Of all persons in the world, I think 
an old bachelor the most amusing. You ought 
to see Uncle Dick ; the way he fusses over him- 
self every morning before he goes up town ; 1 



174 Old Bachelors. 

do believe lie tied his cravat half a dozen times 
to-day before he got the bow to suit him. 

Mary. — I don't think he can be any more par- 
ticular than my Uncle, for I have seen him work 
over his collars until my patience was w T orn out 7 
insisting that one side was an eighth of an inch 
higher than the other. 

Carrie. — Oh, dear ! I didn't think any one was 
as particular as Dick. I often tell him that 
nothing but an old maid will ever suit him. 

Mary. — An old maid suit him ! That w r ould 
be the last person in the world I should choose 
for him; they have so many whims of their own, 
they havn't the patience to humor their hus- 
bands. 

Careie. — It would take a great deal of humor- 
ing to please him, for kind and all as he is, if he 
should happen to find the buttons off his shirts. 
or tape off his drawers, his wife would soon get 
what the boys call " Home, Sweet Home." 

Mary. — But if she should happen only once to 
forget them, what would he say ? 

Carrie. — That it was once too often, and then 
ask her of whom she was thinking, that it could 



Old Bachelors. 175 

not have been him, to neglect his comfort so 
much. I tell you, Mary, old maids are not half 
as deceptive as old bachelors. 

Mary. — No, indeed ; if they were, they would 
not remain unmarried so long ; but the truth is, 
they are too plain and honest to please the gen- 
tlemen. 

Carrie. — And they say, the older men get, the 
younger they want their wives. Now, if I was 
a lawgiver, I would assign all the widows and 
old bachelors wives corresponding in age with 
themselves. 

Mary. — Well, I'm sure they would be hap- 
pier; it is thought to be very romantic to court 
young misses, but when it comes to keeping 
house, give me the widows and elderly girls to 
live with. 

Carrie. — Why don't you preach that doctrine 
to your Uncle, and get him to adopt it ? 

Mary. — I do ; but he laughs at my reasoning, 
and says, altho' it is very good, it don't suit his 
particular case, for he is j ust now of a proper age 
to take care of a young wife. 

Carrie. — Then, he thinks a man under forty 



176 Old Bacheloes. 

entirely too young to assume the responsibilities 
of a married life ; he must have changed his 
mind on that subject, since he proposed to Miss 
Layton and was rejected, some eight or ten years 
since. 

Mary.-— Like all old bachelors, he wants to 
make the best of his misfortunes, and sa3 7 s now 
he is heartily glad she never accepted him, for 
he doesn't think she was ever intended for him. 

Carrie. — Quite consolotary, indeed ! When 
did he get his eyes open? After she refused 
him, of course. 

Mary.— -No, not until after she had been mar- 
ried three or four years, and became so much of 
an invalid she was unable to leave her room. I 
tell you, Carrie, these old bachelors see a great 
deal of the world, but after all, they don't profit 
much by their experience. 

Carrie.— True enough, for of all classes of 
men, I have generally noticed they get the most 
ordinary wives, thinking, as they do, because 
their judgment is matured by age, they cannot 
fail in making a judicious choice. Uncle Dick 
says it would not make any difference how per- 



Cousinly Affections. 177 

feet his wife might be, we would always be try- 
ing to discover some fault in her. 

Mary. — That is because he has always been 
so hard to please. But come, Carrie [taking her 
hand], we will be home too late for dinner, and 
I do not consider our subject interesting enough 
to detain us longer, altho' our worthy Uncles have 
been the theme. 



COUSINLY AFFECTION. 

Lulu is seated at a little table reading. Enter Dinah, the black 
servant. 

Dinah. — Look here, Miss Lu., at the purty 
flowers your cousin gib me just now for you, 
while I was sweeping off de front pavement. 

Lulu. — [Taking them.~\ — Did Aunt Harriet see 
him ? 

Dinah. — No, she was out in de kitchen, show- 
ing mammy how to make some new kind ob 
cake. 

Lulu. — How glad I am. You know, Dinah, 



178 Cousinly Affections. 

she thinks cousins are very dangerous relations. 

Dinah. — I tink so too when dey have such nice 
black eyes, and nice ways ; and then he looked 
kind o' wise, as much as to say, " you under- 
stand, Dinah." 

Lulu. — How foolish to talk so ; he is only 
seventeen, and likes his books much better 
than me. 

Dinah. — Only seventeen ; why, Miss Lu., dat is 
just de age when boys like any ting better dan 
dar books. I tink I hear somebody coming, I 
must go to my sweeping. [Goes.'] 

Enter Helen with her bonnet on. Lulu meets her. 

Lulu. — Good morning, Helen. I did not ex- 
pect you so early ; I have just finished my morn- 
ing's work, and was reading a little in Moore's 
" Lallah Rookh." 

Helen. — Bad symptoms, Lulu, to be indulging 
in poetry so early in the morning. Were you 
musing over being so unfortunate as to " never 
have a dear Gazelle, to glad you with its soft 
black eye ?" 

Lulu. — Not quite, Helen, but I could not help 






Cousinly Affections. 179 

thinking, while I read, what a trial it was to be 
placed under the charge of such a matchless old 
maid as Aunt Harriet. To be sure she is kind 
enough, but her watchfulness never ceases. 

Helen. — Then she fully supplies a mother's 
place. 

Lulu. — 'Never ! Oh, never ! I could have gone 
to mother and unfolded my most hidden 
thoughts ; told her all my little joys and sorrows, 
and received the kind pressure of her warm 
hand, and the " God bless you, my child," that 
was worth far more to me, than all of aunts' 
chidings, and worldly experiences. 

Helen. — Has she had many trials in life ? 

Lulu. — 'Yes, enough to overshadow all the fu- 
ture, but, like a good Christian, she bears her 
sorrows humbly and uncomplainingly. She does 
not, however, seem to understand me, and I 
know my light and capricious manner grieves 
her, but it is hard to check every ebullition of 
youthful feelings. 

Enter Dinah. — Law ! Miss Lu., I forgot to gib 
you dis little note, that came wid de flowers, 
dis morning. [Takes it from her bosom.] It 



180 Cousinly Affections. 

smells as sweet as if it come from a 'pothe- 
cary's shop. 

Lulu. — How forgetful ; it may require an an- 
swer. [Glancing at its contents.] 

Dinah. — Can't wait for one now, Miss Lu., for 
de knives need cleaning, and de Britannia a 
good scrubbing. [Goes out."] 

Helen. — Pardon my curiosity, but come tell 
me all about this beautiful boquet, that has just 
invested itself with fresh interest. 

Lulu. — [Handing her the note.] — That will ex- 
plain all. 

Helen. — [Reads aloud.] — " Dear Cousin : I send 
you some fresh flowers, may their fragrance and 
beauty cheer your little room, and speak kindly 
to your heart, of Cousin Harry." 

Helen. — Cousin Harry. Dear me ! when did 
he cultivate such a taste for flowers. It is not 
six months since he told me he did not know a 
Dandelion from a Dahlia. 

Lulu. — It is very doubtful whether he is much 
wiser now, but his ignorance don't detract any 
from the beauty of the offering. 

Helen. — Of course not, for flowers have their 



Cousinly Affections. 181 



own language, construe them as we will. Does 
your aunt approve of these silent messengers of 
cousinly affection ? 

Lulu. — Of course not ; altho' she is not aware 
I received them, and she seldom comes to my 
room, so that it is not probable she will know it. 

Helen. — I don't see any impropriety in his 
sending, or you receiving them ; altho' she may 
have more for -esig lit in the matter than either of 
us. 

Lulu. — Yes, it would be a good text for an- 
other of her lessons of experience, showing how 
easily the first error made up the sum of greater 
ones in life. But I must go and put on my shawl 
and bonnet, to go out with you, or the whole 
morning will have passed before we knoAv it. 

Both go out, and Aunt H. comes in at another door. 

Aunt H. — I wonder where the girl has gone, 
she is not up stairs or down, and I wanted her 
to darn this collar, and hem this handkerchief. 
Perhaps this note will explain all. [Takes it 
from the table and reads.] Well, well, there is no 
use trying to inculcate lessons of experience 
learned by others. " May they speak kindly to 



182 Cousinly Affections. 

your heart, of Cousin Harry." That last line 
has the sting of Cupid's arrow in it. I wonder 
if it has penetrated her heart. The little 
scamp ! only seventeen ; just think of it. I 
hate precocious youths. I will tell his mother ; 
no doubt he has taken the money to buy those 
flowers, she had given him for something else. 

Enter Dinah. — Law Missus ! you ought to see 
my Britannia, it is as bright as a new half dollar. 

Aunt H. — Come here, Dinah. Do you know 
anything about this note, and these flowers ? 

Dinah. — Yes, something; Miss Lu.'s cousin 
gib them to me this morning for her. 

Aunt H. — Did he leave any messages with 
you, besides. 

Dinah. — No ; he just looked wise, and walked 
on like as if he was a gentleman. 

Aunt H. — Foolish boy. How provoking. I 
will tell his mother. Where is Miss Lu. ? I have 
been in every room in the house, and cannot 
find her. 

Dinah. — She went out a few minutes ago wid 
a young lady, and said if you 'quired for her, to 
say she would not be gone berry long. 



A Doctor's Office. 183 

Aunt H. — I will have a good lecture for her 
when she comes back. Dinah, are these the 
first flowers he has ever sent her ? 

Dinah. — Can't say, Missus, but tink dey are 
mighty purty anyhow. [Looks at them, and while 
doing so Aunt H. leaves the room. Dinah looks round 
and shrugs her shoulders^ — Poor Miss Lu. ! won't 
she git it when she comes back, and wish she 
nebber had flowers, or cousin neder. I know 
she'll cry, and dear old Missus will forgive her 
until de next time. I'll go and watch for her 
coming. 



SCENE IN A DOCTOR'S OFFICE. 

Servant arranging books. 

Doctor B. — [Comes in quite hurriedly, ,] — Any 
messages since I left ? 

Dick. — Yes, several, and all want you imme- 
diately. 

Doctor. — Of course ; never saw it otherwise. 
Bring me the slate. [Looks over the na?nes.~\ Tim 
O'Connor, Jake Myers, and Mrs. Waller. I'll go 



184 A Doctoe's Office. 

and see Mrs. Waller first ; she is a nice little 
widow, always imagines there is something the 
matter with her, and I never saw a more healthy 
woman in my life. 

Dick. — O'Conner's case I think is the worst; 
he said his wife could hardly speak. 

Doctor. — She must be very low when she be- 
comes speechless, for Tim knows, to his sorrow, 
what use she has of language when she is well. 
The rascal owes me fifteen dollars now, and I 
see no prospect of collecting it. 

Dick. — And Myers. 

Doctor. — First rate pay, but rarely ever sick ; 
thinks if he loses a day in bed, it is the greatest 
misfortune that could befall him. Make up a 
few of those sugar-coated pills, Dick [handing 
him some empty boxes], and have them ready when 
I cume back. [Goes out.~\ 

Dick. — " Sugar-coated pills." I'm tired seeing 
them. Some I know are for the widow, but I 
guess she sugars him in return, altho' she don't, 
give it in the shape of a pill. 

Enter Tim O'Conner, dressed as a laboring Irish?nan. 

Tim. — Bad lack to ye. Where is the doctor? 



A Doctor's Office. 185 



Didn't I lave word an hour ago, my wife was 
spaachless, and niver a sight have I seen of him 
since. 

Dick. — He has just gone out, and will be at 
your house before he comes back. 

Tim. — 1 have never had a moment's pace since 
I was here. She is crying "doctor, doctor," all 
the time, and the children, bless their little souls, 
keep running to the door every minute, to see it 
he is coming. 

Dick. — Has she been sick long ? 

Tdi. — A T ot at all, sir ; we had a little difference 
this morning about who would dress the children, 
and just as she was getting out o' bed she took a 
crick in her back, and couldn't rise at all, at all. 

Dick. — Oh, if that's all, take this liniment, 
pour it on a woolen cloth, and rub her well every 
fifteen minutes, until the doctor comes. 

Tbi. — Hadn't you better send her some pow- 
ders to take, for she says they always charm 
away the pain. 

Dick. — Certainly, certainly, six of them won't 
hurt her any how. Give them every half hour, 
until she is better. [Tim goes out.] 



186 A Doctor's Office. 



Dick. — I wouldn't wonder if she was well when 
the doctor got there. My prescriptions always 
cure. I believe I will set up for myself some 
day. Wouldn't the old doctor stare to meet me 
in consultation? 

Enter Stranger. — Is the doctor in ? 

Dick. — No, sir, but expect him soon. 

Stranger. — This pulsatilla he gave me has 
not had the desired effect; but I thought it 
might be owing to my having given her one pellet 
more than he prescribed. 

Dick. — [Aside.] — I'm puzzled now. What can 
he be talking about? It does act that way 
sometimes, and you must be more careful in 
future. 

Enter Doctor. — Good day, sir. You wished to 
see me, sir ? 

Stranger. — [A little confused.] — I must have 
mistaken the place. Are you Dr. Brown, the 
homeopathist ? 

Doctor. — [Assuming unwonted dignity.'] — No, 
sir ; I am Dr. Butler, the allopathist. Dr. Brown 
is two doors above me. Have you practiced on 
that system long, sir ? 



A Doctoe's Office. 187 

Stranger. — Not very ; merely experimenting 
a little to try the virtue of it. So far, have suc- 
ceeded very well, but have not yet tested it to 
my satisfaction. 

Doctor. — They say it possesses wonderful 
powers when combined with allopathy; but 
take away that, and, like a tottering child, it 
extends its hands for immediate help. 

Stranger. — It may be so, but I am willing at 
least to try it, for calomel, and salts, and senna 
have been my bane ; and if there is a little pur- 
gatory on earth, it is to be subjected to the old 
practice in its native purity. 

Doctor. — Yes, there are errors, and great 
ones, in the old practice, but time and experience 
have modified them so much, they are almost 
entirely obliterated. Medicine, like every thing 
else, is very progressive. 

Stranger. — That is probably the reason we 
think there is some virtue in homeopathy. 

Doctor. — Just so ; you will always find follow- 
ers to every thing new ; but the most reliable 
patients we have are those who have tested it, 
and come back like the prodigal son. 



188 A Doctor's Office, 



Stranger. — I may be one of those, but am 
willing, for the present, like other sheep, to go 
astray. Good morning, doctor ; I will call and 
let you know the result of my experience. 
[Goes.] 

Doctor. — Fudge on his experience. I hope I 
may never see him again, if he calls to assure 
me there is something in it. Have lost some of 
my best families now, and there is no knowing 
where it is going to end. 

Enter Dick. — Two more patients have sent for 
you, and O' Conner was here while you were 
gone . 

Doctor. — I called there, and found her improv- 
ing rapidly under your treatment. By the wa}-, 
Dick, I wish you would watch, and tell me if 
Mr. Hart's buggy stops at Dr. B.'s door while I 
am gone ; I heard he had turned homeopathist. 
(Another of my patients ! ) What apes men 
make of themselves, following after such hum- 
buggery ! [Goes out J] 

Dick. — [Alone.] — This homeopathy troubles 
him dreadfully. It is about as much as I can do 
to attend to our own door, without watching Dr. 



On Concealmext. 189 



B.'s. But I must obey orders. Hope the nice 
little widow will not turn homeopathist; but I 
guess there is no danger while there is a pros- 
pect of her becoming a partner in our business. 
I think I hear a buggy now. [Goes out.] 



ON CONCEALMENT. 

Enter Laura, with a work-basket, containing fancy-colored rib- 
bons ; seats herself at a small table, and commences arranging 
boivs, while she soliloquizes thus : 

Laura.— Wouldn't be much astonished if she 
should chance to come in and catch me, after 
all. She moves about so quietly, that I never 
hear her until it is too late to conceal my work. 
[Starts unexpectedly, and rises. Enter Cousin 
Val.] — Oh, Vally ! is it you ? I thought it was 
grandma ; and you know, with her quaint, old- 
fashioned notions, I am not allowed to indulge 
in these vanities, as she calls them. [Holding 
up the ribbons^] 

Val. — How beautiful they are ! such a variety 



190 On Concealment. 

of colors ! Did you arrange this [looking at 
one], or is it the taste of some French milliner ? 

Laura. — All my own ; I have a perfect pas- 
sion for bows (of this kind, I mean), and can 
form almost any style that my fancy may sug- 
gest. 

Val. — Are you doing it for mere pastime, or 
with a view to something of which you have 
not told me ? 

Laura. — For nothing more than to adorn my 
plain and unpretending person at the party to- 
morrow night. You know I am titled the Little 
Quakeress every place I go, and fur once I am 
going to appear in something else than gray. 

Val. — They will think you have renounced 
the old Plymouth faith, and are fast verging into 
modern follies. I suppose you will renounce 
your thees and thous? 

Enter Grandma, in Quaker costume, with bonnet on. Laura 
throws her handkerchief on her basket, and hides it behind 
the table. 

Grandma. — Well, my children, thee don't seem 
to be very busy this morning, and as I am going 
down to spend the day with Abigail, I want 



On Concealment, 191 

thee to look to the house, and see that Patty 
does her work well. 

Laura. — Never fear, Grandma, we will do so, 
and have a cup of tea and toast for you when 
you return. Let me fix your white handker- 
chief in better taste, for you know how soon 
Aunt Abigail sees every thing, and how partic- 
ular she is about her own dress. 

Grandma. — But Abigail is much younger than 
me, and almost as fond of dress as my little 
granddaughter here (patting her on the check), 
whose smooth young face hath no wrinkles, and 
her brow no marks of care. 

Val. — But you know, Grandma, we cannot 
always look so young, and I fancy Quaker girls 
at sixteen look more matronly than others at 
twenty-five. 

Grandma. — They certainly do, my child; but. 
how much longer they retain their youth, for 
they never use lily-white and rouge, and their 
fair complexions remain unchanged. But I must 
go, or Abigail may be tempted to go out this 
pretty day, and I shall find none to welcome me, 
[Goes out.] 



192 On Concealment. 

Laura. — [Gets out her basket, and resumes her 
work."\ — I don't believe, Cousin VaL, I would be 
half so fond of dress if Grandma was not con- 
tinually warning me against it ; she dreads it as 
much as some chronic disease. We can have a 
nice time now, among bows and ribbon, and not 
fear the intrusion of any of our old Quaker 
f lends. 

Val. — Bat Patty and the house — 

Laura. — Will take care of themselves, as they 
have often done before. Come, sit down ; I want 
to see how this ribbon becomes you [arranges it 
in her hair] ; too much color, I think. This will 
look better. 

Val.— I think so too ; and then it corresponds 
with your sash. [Goes to her basket, and gets 
it also.] 

Enter Patty. — [Dressed as a servant, with a plate 
of cakes.] — Here is something nice ; I baked them 
in just twenty minutes, and have four loaves in 
the oven, that will be as brown as Miss Laura's 
hair. 

Laura. — [Eating one.] — They are very good, 
Patty; just leave them on my little table, and 



On Concealment. 193 

Cousin Vally and I will attend to them by-and- 
by. Don't forget to have a plate of toast for 
Grandma's tea this evening, and a nice white 
cloth, to make every thing look more tempting ; 
rub up the little silver-set until you can see a 
good-natured face in it, that will give you smile 
for smile. 

Patty. — I have, Miss Laura, and it looks like 
new. I am going to have my floor as white as 
milk, and my stove as black as ebony. You 
know I am as proud of my kitchen as you are of 
the parlor. 

Laura. — That's a good girl, Patty, and may 
be you will have both a kitchen and a parlor of 
your own some day. 

Patty. — (Hangs her head very modestly^ — And 
I will go and take tea with you; I thought 1 
heard the bell just now. Say that Grandma is 
out, and will not return before evening. (Patty 
goes out) 

Yal. — What a kind, good-natured girl she is ! 
and so obliging, it is really a pleasure to see her 
happy face. 

Laura. — And so neat and tidy ! But, come, 
i 



194 On Concealment. 

let me take that ribbon off your hair, for it is 
getting late, and I have to make bows to loop 
up my sleeves. 

(Enter Grandma. — Both look startled.) 

Grandma. — Well, my children, I did not stay 
as long as I thought. Abigail was out, and I 
called to see Lydia Moore, and our friend Han- 
nah. What is that, Laura, that it seems thee 
does not wish me to see ? {Laura comes up very 
timidly, holding the ribbon.) Some foolish finery, 
to take away the beauty from thy young face. 
Does Val. or thee think my plain white cap would 
look any better if it had bows of ribbon on it? 

Val. — Of course not, Grandma, for we have 
been so long accustomed to the little frill, that 
any thing else would look unbecoming. 

Grandma. — So would it be to me to see either 
of you decked in bows of ribbon. It is not dress 
that wins the esteem of the wise, but becoming 
manners ; and I know thee both will give heed 
to thy grandmother's counsels. 

Laura. — Of course we will, Grandma; but I 
am so tired of silver gray, that I thought a little 
ribbon would take away the sombre hue. 



Hope and Feae. 195 

Grandma. — Nothing looks sombre where there 
is a cheerful, happy face to light it up ; but if 
thee would like white, I have no objections to it. 

Laura. — I'm so glad ; there is nothing I like 
better, and hereafter I shall ask you what I shall 
wear, and not act upon my own judgment with- 
out consulting your wishes. 

Grandma. — That is right, my child; keep 
nothing from me, for the young need the counsels 
of the old to guide their footsteps in the rugged 
paths of life. Go tell Patty to get an early tea, 
for I am weary with my long walk, and need 
something to refresh me. You take my bonnet 
and shawl, Vally, and I will follow thee to my 
room. {Both go out.) 



HOPE AND FEAR. 

Enter crusty old bachelor, walking the floor very restlessly, and 
talking to himself. 

Bach. — Got up with a headache this morning 
(and heartache too), slept very little all night, 
and dreamed of Adam and Eve, but awoke to 



196 Hope axd Fear. 



find myself in anything but Paradise. Women 
are perfect enigmas; never could understand 
them, and have known them for over forty 
years. 

Enter Nephew. — Good morning, uncle ; did 
you know the Atlantic Telegraph had been laid? 

Bach.— Heard so last night, but didn't believe 
a word of it. [Aside. — I wish she was at the 1 
bottom of the Ocean with it.] Too great an en- 
terprise; never will succeed ; havn't much faith 
in anything [low voice], particularly women. 

Nephew. — Yes, they say it is actually laid and 
the continuity is perfect. 

Bach. — What do you know about continuity? 
It is preposterous to hear boys talk so. 

Nephew. — Why, uncle, you seem ill natured 
this morning; has any thing gone wrong? 

Bach. — Wrong enough; for -when one gets up 
with the headache, it unfits him for duty all 
day- Come here, my boy ; do you know where 
Lizzy Lee lives. 

Nephew. — I think I ought to know, I have 
carried enough of messages to her from the 
Colonel. 



Hope ixd Fear. 197 

Bach. — [Startled!] — The Colonel did you say ? 
Has he been acquainted with her long ? 

Nephew. — Over three months. 

Bach. — That tells the whole story ; brass but- 
tons and diamonds have won her. I wonder 
when women will learn to appreciate true merit. 

Nephew. — He took her out on horseback, yes- 
terday afternoon, and they looked like a king 
and queen. 

Bach. — [Aside.] — The coquette ! You would 
not have supposed she had ever rode with any 
one but me, to hear her talk of her rare privi- 
leges, last night. It is too provoking ; I will 
not be duped any longer. [Sits down and writes 
a few lines very hurriedly!] Here, take this, and 
wait for an answer. [Nephew goes out.] 

Bach. [Solilloquizes, with his hands in his pockets, 
and looks very much dejected!] — " Old fools," they 
say, " are the worst fools." There must be some 
truth in it, for who could have thought that little 
flirt could have thrown dust into my eyes. [Rub- 
bing them.] I see clearer now, but the mist is 
not altogether gone. She asked me piquantly, 
last night, if I had received my second sight. 



198 Hope and Feae. 

What an artless, winning way she has ; seems 
like a child in simplicity, but is a very sorceress 
in wisdom. 

Enter Mr. Lewis. — Good day, my old friend. 
I called at your office, this morning, but finding 
you out, and knowing you to be a gentleman of 
leisure, I thought I would venture to call at your 
house, as I am in need of a little pecuniary 
assistance to-day. 

Bach. — For what amount ? 

Mr. L. — Only five hundred ; give a good note 
payable in sixty days, with interest; run no 
risk ; find it all right in the end. 

Bach. — Currency is going up, and rates of dis- 
count much higher. 

Mr. L. — Am willing to pay the difference, but 
must be accommodated to-day. 

Bach. — All right; call at my office at 11, and 
you will find me there. Don't feel very well 
this morning; am a little inclined to headache. 

Mr. L. — That is generally the result of loss of 
sleep, but as you have not any wife or children 
to intrude upon your quiet hours, I should think 
you would never be troubled with it. 



Hope and Fear. 199 

Bach. — Not any wife or children, or not very 
likely to have any ; they are articles we old 
bachelors can very easily dispense with. 

Mr. L. — But who is to be the sharer of your 
large fortune ? 

Bach. — Nephews, I suppose, and nieces ; they 
can dispose of it as easily as any one, and the 
amount when equally divided will not burden 
any of them. 

Mr. L. — There is nothing, my good friend, like 
having a family to share your prosperity, partic- 
ularly a wife. But I must go, for business is very 
brisk to-day. I'll see you in the course of an 
hour. [Goes out.] 

Batch. — [Alone.] — He says there is nothing 
like having a wife. He must have a good one, 
but that is the lot of very few. I wonder what 
the little vixen will say, when she reads my 
note ; if she cries, I know she loves me ; and if 
she don't, I'll have revenge on her. How atten- 
tentively she listened as I told her of my love, 
last night ; looked sad, but would not give me 
the encouragement I had hoped. When I took 
her hand she did not withdraw it, as she ha? 



200 Hope and Feae. 

sometimes, but let it lay passively in mine. 
Have been deceived once or twice before, and 
may be again ; am almost afraid to hope. Mil- 
itary titles sound large to young girls, bat are 
like tinkling brass. I wonder why he stays so 
long ; think I hear him coming now. [Rises.] 
Enter Nephew. 
Bach. — What kept you so long ? 
Nephew. — Why, uncle, 1 have not been gone 
fifteen minutes. 

Bach. — The answer. 

Nephew. — I have it in my pocket [feeling 
both] ; no, in my hat. [Looks, but cannot find it.] 
Bach. — Lost it, have you, you little rascal. I'll 
disinherit you. [Finds it and hands it to him.] 

Bach. [Reads and smiles very complacently, then 
turning to his Nephew.] — Go and tell my 
partner to cash Mr. L.'s note ; I will not be at 
the office this morning. [Nephew goes out.] 

Bach. — [Alone.] — She wants me to come im- 
mediately ; says, " don't delay, for the spirit of 
your note has grieved me very much." That's 
one point gained ; think I'll succeed yet, and if 
I do, the laying of the Atlantic telegraph cable 
is nothing to it. 



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